


Soul of the Night

by Kitzie



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/F, F/M, Grey Wardens, M/M, Multi, Multiple Wardens, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 321,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitzie/pseuds/Kitzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six Wardens, from all origins, set out to accomplish the impossible. Add their companions and the belatedly Joined Lieutenant, and Ferelden may just have a chance.</p><p>Follows the events of Dragon Age Origins... with some artistic licence added where appropriate.</p><p>Will eventually continue into Awakening, DAII, Inqusition and whatever games may follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Streets of Dust Town

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally written by UntoldSin1313 on ff.net ( https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4313732/Untoldsin1313 ). I am the beta reader, and posting this here on AO3 with his permission. I joined "the team" so to speak only a while after the story began, and both his writing style and my capacities as a beta evolved drastically as the story developed. Thus, you will find the most recent chapters to be significantly more eloquent and well-written than the first few in particular.  
> Additionally, I found that even if you use Rich Text to upload the chapter, it doesn't seem to transfer all the formatting and things correctly. Chapters 1-36 were uploaded in bulk, and I will eventually go back over them, but I don't have the time and energy right now. As of chapter 37 forward, everything will be checked and double checked and triple checked before being uploaded to ensure it's correct and well-edited :)  
> This story's concept and most of the storyboard were thought up LONG before Inquisition came to be. We know that Inquisition makes some of our decisions impossible, and we know this may make some of you feel this story has a mild AU quality to it. We're ok with that. We'll keep working with it to the best of our abilities, because we love the story we've created here.  
> If you ever find jarring moments where the characters seem to act at odds with their previous development, there is a really stupid reason for that: once I started helping Sin, we started RPing conversations between the characters for future chapters as and when ideas came to us, and we didn't do them in order, and rewriting and adapting them to fit changes later took a lot of work... so it's possible we may have missed a couple of bits here and there. I hope you enjoy nonetheless, and do, of course, go ahead and write constructive criticism reviews when you feel it's warranted!  
> So with that, Kitzie out. Enjoy the story!

 

_ Orzammar _

 

Garik Brosca strode through the Commons of Orzammar, ignoring the glares and offended looks of the other castes. Leske, his long time friend, trailed after him. Garik was a bit short, even for a dwarf, but he was stocky, with long reddish brown hair tied in a ponytail. “I’m about ready to feed Beraht his teeth, Lesk,” Garik grumbled.

 

“I know, but for now, let’s just do what he says, Duster. He’s already twitchy enough.”

 

Garik smirked. Leske was referring to Oskias, the merchant that Beraht had sent the pair of them after. Eager to tweak Beraht’s nose, and pocket a little coin while he was at it, Garik had convinced Oskias to hand over a pair of lyrium nuggets and let the merchant go. Afterwards, the pair had convinced Beraht that Oskias was dead, though the Stone-forsaken bastard had sent them on a second errand.

 

“So this is a gift, huh? I’ve never been to a Proving,” Leske said as they walked.

 

“Neither have I. What are they like?” Garik asked.

 

“You know, two sweaty Warrior Caste men, all oiled up by servant girls and wrapped in shining smith-wrought steel… hundreds of beautiful women watching from the stands, wanting nothing more than to rub them down afterwards.”

 

“Whoa, easy there!” Garik chuckled. “Don’t stain anything.”

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to sneak in and see one for yourself.”  
  
“I always wanted to be the one in the ring.”

 

“Hah!” Leske laughed. “I bet you could beat the beards off most of those overstuffed swaggers. Wouldn’t that be nice? And if gold coins fell from my mouth whenever I spoke, that would be grand. And only slightly less likely.”

 

“Why would the Grey Wardens care who wins a Proving?” Garik questioned. 

 

“Think about their responsibility Take these humans and elves who’ve spent their whole lives flitting around and eating figs and teach them to fight darkspawn. Of course they’re going to need a dwarf to help them. Here they get to pick from the best of the vein.”

 

“Doesn’t joining the Wardens mean going to the surface?”  
  
“Not like turning your back on the Stone to take a caravan topside. Fighting darkspawn is a sacred duty. The king decreed long ago that a dwarf who joins the Wardens keeps his caste.”

 

“Why should we care what happens topside?”

 

“We don’t. Unless there are enough darkspawn to go up there, because that means there’s something leading them. And that means an archdemon. And that means a Blight. Which means possibly the end of life as we know it.”

 

Garik nodded, his curiosity sated. “Let’s get moving before we miss the Proving.”

 

“From your lips to my ears,” Leske chuckled.

 

They passed the proving guard with little issue once Garik flashed the pass Beraht had given him. “Stone’s embrace!” Leske breathed as they entered the Main Hall. “That’s one of them. One of the Grey Wardens.” There was no mistaking the silver griffin emblazoned on the cuirass of the human standing in the middle of the hall. He looked younger than Garik had anticipated. Most Grey Wardens that Garik knew of were much older. The human’s hair was dark red, resembling the color of blood, and tied back in a braided ponytail. His matching beard was trimmed neatly and nowhere near as long as some of the nobles or warriors. But it was the human’s eyes that really caught Garik’s attention. They shined a bluish grey, resembling fire hardened steel, and when they caught the light from a torch the right way, they seemed to glow. Garik was drawn from his thoughts by Leske. “Oh I dare you to go over and talk to him. Say, ‘Welcome to Orzammar, Warden Ser. May I drink your bath water?’”

 

Garik swatted his best friend before striding over to the human. The young man turned to him with a friendly smile. “Stone-met and blessings on your house,” he said. When Garik’s eyebrows shot up, the human’s gaze became quizzical. “That was the proper greeting for an outsider when my commander last visited Orzammar. Has it changed? Or is there a reason you are looking at me so strangely?”

 

Garik scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “In my part of Orzammar, we just go with ‘Hello,”

 

The human chuckled. “We do the same in my part of Ferelden. Hello, then. My name is Conrí Cousland. I’d say, ‘of the Grey Wardens,’ but I suspect you already know that.”

 

“I am Garik of…” Garik sighed. He wasn’t going to lie. Not to a Warden. “Of nobody.” Conrí’s expression changed, though not in a way Garik expected. He looked… troubled.

 

“Ah…. That’s what the face brand means then. I remember that now.”

 

“I’m sorry to bother you…”

 

“I never turn down the chance to meet someone new,” Conrí told him with a smile. “When we visit Orzammar, we tend to remain in the Diamond Quarter. You forget how much of the city you miss.”

 

Garik smirked. He liked this human. “Is it true you’re here looking for recruits?”

 

“The Wardens are always looking for those who have the courage to spend their lives in battle against the darkspawn. It’s rare we find those with both the skill and the will. The best Wardens are ruthless to their enemies, compassionate to their friends, and inspiring to their troops. It’s a lot to look for, but I hope to find it here. And I hope you also may find what you are looking for.” Conrí inclined his head and strode off, heading towards the VIP booth.

 

“I can’t believe you talked to him! A Grey Warden!” Leske laughed, slugging Garik playfully on the shoulder as they made their way towards the fighters’ prep area. They quickly found Everd’s room, but what they found inside was not bracing. Everd was on the floor, groaning and talking in his sleep and the room stank of booze.

 

“Sod it!” Leske swore. “He’s stone drunk! He could draw a dead man for his bout and still lose. Ach! Beraht’s going to kill us if we slip up here. He’s already jumpy enough after that stunt with Oskias—Hey… I just had an idea…

 

“I could put on his armor. You know, fight in his name,” Garik suggested.

 

“That’s much better than my idea. I was going to say we should go up into the stands and start a rockslide, but you’re brilliant! You’ll be Everd. You’ll go out in his armor, keep down the visor, and fight in his name. He wins, Beraht wins, everybody wins. Except all the Warrior Caste braggarts you leave kissing dust,” Leske cackled. “I sodding love the way you think, my friend. I was afraid Beraht was going to kill us!”  
  
“If I do this, I’ll win by skill alone. I won’t use the drug.”

 

“You’ve got a heart of steel, salroka. Get in the armor.”

 

The duo had just finished adjusting the last of the armors straps when the Proving Master’s voice boomed down the hall. “Bout three is next. Officer Mainar versus the warrior Everd! Fighters, report to the ring.”

 

“No more time!” Leske groaned, tightening the last harness. “Make sure you have everything and go tell the proving guard when you’re ready to fight. And don’t forget to keep your helmet down!” he added, slamming the visor into place.

 

* * *

 

Conrí watched the Proving in the Royal Booth next to the Proving Master. This Everd had demonstrated serious skill, even defeating a Silent Sister. Perhaps he would accept a position as a Warden.

 

“Everd will advance to the final bout, to decide who is the true champion of the ring, against--”

 

The Proving Master was cut off as a dwarf stumbled into the ring. “Wha-?” he grunted drunkenly. Garik’s eyes widened as he recognized the real Everd. “Is my bout a’ready? Hey! That’s my armor!”

 

“Who are you?!” the Proving Master demanded. “How dare you interrupt this sacred--”

 

“Wait!” Mainar shouted. “I know that man. That’s Everd! Then… what imposter did I fight?”

 

“Remove your helmet warrior, and let all who watched see your face.”

 

Garik glanced at the numerous guards closing in on him. There was no way to escape. With a sigh, knowing what would come next, Garik reluctantly removed the helm, tossing it aside defiantly. The crowd roared in anger, seeing the brand on his right cheek. He glared around, not backing down.

 

Conrí stood as well, his face contemplative. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully even as the Proving Master spat like a rabid mongrel. “Castless! You insult the very nature of this Proving! Guards, take this… filth away!”

 

“Hold your men, I pray you,” Conrí implored. “This warrior has defeated the best you have to offer. Is that not what this Proving is for?”

 

“We are honored by your presence, Warden, but this Proving is not solely for you. There are laws that have governed this arena for a thousand years,” the Proving Master turned to Garik, disdain dripping from his tone. “This man is no warrior! He is castless, rejected by the ancestors. His very footsteps pollute the stone. He has no place here!”

 

“Except as your champion,” Conrí told him coolly. 

 

* * *

 

Garik was roused from unconsciousness by a familiar voice. “Are you awake yet? Psst! Can you hear me?” Garik got up, his head throbbing. “How hard did they sodding hit you anyway? Did you have to put up such a fight?”

 

“Leske?” Garik asked rubbing his head. “What happened?”

 

“As soon as everyone saw your face brand, the place went mad. Shut all the doors, examined everyone for family and caste. One of the guards recognized me and figured we must be working together. They burned three candles to the stump interrogating me about who put us up to this. I think they knew, ya know, about Beraht.”

 

“This doesn’t look like your typical guard cell,” Garik commented. The bars were slightly rusted and the place stank of blood.

 

“Huh, I guess not. I mean, I’ve been in most of them. They don’t usually have… this many stains on the walls. Uh, any chance you see a way out?”

 

“Good. You’re both awake. Beraht will be happy to hear that,” a female castless came into the room. It was Jarvia, Beraht’s lieutenant. “You caused a lot of trouble today. Beraht lost a hundred sovereigns for lord Vollney. The entire proving was declared invalid and the Assembly already called for an investigation. You can’t imagine the state Beraht was in when he told me to get you.”

 

“Where are we?” Garik demanded.

 

“That’s right,” Jarvia laughed smugly. “You’ve never had the privilege of being down here. You’re in one of the deep cells in Beraht’s estate. He built it into the ruins of old Orzammar.Plenty of room to store gold and lyrium. And nice thick walls so no one can hear the screams.”  
  
“But how did we get here?”

 

“I brought you. You’ve got every guardsmen at that Proving thinking if he takes your head off, he’ll be blessed by the Ancestors forever. But they know whose hand holds the whip. When Beraht claimed you, they knew who would get to watch your last breath.”

 

“Let him come,” Garik snarled. “He’ll see I don’t scare easy.”

 

“I don’t think scaring you is Beraht has in mind. You risked exposing him before the entire Warrior Caste. Now they’re asking questions, and as long as you have tongues to answer them, you’re a threat. Have a good last night, boys. Beraht’ll be by soon to make sure you maintain your silence.” With a last smug smile, Jarvia left, chuckling.

 

Garik cursed as a jailor came into view, no doubt left by Jarvia. In his frustration, he kicked the door to his cell, making it rattle and clank. “Hey, leave off with your noise! You’re givin’ me a headache!” the jailor grumbled his dull tone irritated. This guy obviously wasn’t too bright. An idea struck Garik, so he put on a mad sounding voice.

 

“Ooh, that’s how it started for me too!” he cackled.

 

“What do you mean?” the jailor leaned in. With one swift movement, Garik reached through the bars, grabbed the neck of the idiot’s armor and slammed his head repeatedly against the bars. The jailor went down with a pained groan, the gashes on his head gushing blood. Shaking blood from his hand, Garik rooted through the jailor’s pockets, pulling a key from one. He opened his cell door quickly, and did the same for Leske’s.

 

“If we wanna get away with this, we can’t leave one man alive to tell Beraht what we’ve done,” said Leske as the pair made their way over to the chest holding their belongings. Once suited and armed, the pair of Dust Town rogues made their way through Beraht’s estate, slaughtering any they came upon. 

 

After far too many skirmishes, Garik slumped against a wall, sliding to the floor as he struggled to catch his breath. “Ugh… how deep are these tunnels?” he muttered.

 

“Ya got me, Duster,” Leske groaned as he plopped down next to Garik.

 

After a long stretch of silence, marred only by heavy breathing, Garik spoke again. “Ya know, Lesk, ya don’t have to stick with me here. You could probably find your own way out.”

 

Leske chuckled tiredly. “Ach, knock that talk off and get your head outta the dust, Brand. I’ve stuck by you since we were both stealing bread and that ain’t about to change.”

 

Garik smirked to cover the happiness at his friend’s loyalty. “Alright. It’s on your head now.”

 

“What else is new?” the pair rose and continued on. Soon the caves began to resemble the lower levels of a basement. Not long after, they came across an intersection of three doorways. “We must be getting close to an exit.”

 

Garik approached a door and beckoned Leske closer. The pair of rogues pressed their ears to the cool metal.

 

“… If that turncoat brother of hers can’t keep his head down, I have no use for precious Rica either,” Garik heard the bastard muttering.

 

“Rica?” asked one of Beraht’s guards. “That the one you’ve got all done up in lace? Ooh, I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that!”

 

The other guard chuckled. “I know what you mean.”  
  
“She’s yours if you want her, boys,” Beraht chuckled. “And let me tell ya, tastes as good as it looks.” Garik growled ferally, drawing his daggers as he kicked the door open and stalked toward Beraht. “What is that doing out of its cage?” he asked with a drawl.

 

“It…” Garik snarled. “Was just looking for a way out… but now I’m here for your blood.”

 

“Let’s teach this little duster a lesson,” Beraht sneered. The trio charged the escaped prisoners, drawing blades. Garik grinned savagely as he ducked under one of the thug’s axe and drove his dagger into the duster’s ribs, piercing his lung. The thug went down with a bloody gurgle, the dagger still embedded in his torso. Leske slipped behind the second thug when his attention was drawn to Garik and slit his throat.

 

Garik sidestepped Beraht’s swing as Leske fell back, knowing Garik wanted Beraht all to himself. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this day, you sodding cave tick,” Garik growled as he spun his remaining dagger.

 

Beraht chuckled condescendingly. “I have an inkling, you waste of space. Ya know, before you charged in here like you own the place, I was just planning on cutting your whore sister loose. But now I think I’m gonna pay her and your mother one last little visit.”

 

Garik snarled. “Not while I breathe,”

 

“That’s the point,” Beraht swung his shield, aiming to stun the rogue, but Garik dodged back and side stepped when Beraht swung his axe again. Garik grabbed his former ‘employer’s’ wrist twisted and wrenched the axe from Beraht’s grip. When Beraht turned to retaliate, Garik drove his dagger into Beraht’s chest. Beraht’s face dropped in shock, looking down at the blade embedded to the hilt through his chestplate.

 

“Just another duster, eh?” Garik growled, rearing back with Beraht’s axe. The crime lord’s face was still locked into an expression of shock even as his own axe sliced his head from his body. Garik wrenched his dagger from the headless corpse, letting it fall to the stone.

 

Garik barely had time to spit on what was once Beraht before Leske came forward and slapped him on the back. “Did you see him standing there all ‘When we’re done with you!’ and you just charged in and sodding slaughtered him! You have to be the luckiest duster in Orzammar. Beraht’s dead and we’re standing here! Hail to the sodding king!”

 

“I had hoped he’d have time to beg for mercy,” Garik chuckled darkly.

 

“Oh, he was begging,” Leske assured him. “That look of utter surprise on his face when he tasted his own blood! That’s as close to begging as Beraht gets.”

 

“I have to make sure Rica, is okay,” Garik muttered, remembering Beraht’s words.

 

“Well, he sure was talking like she was still alive. But I won’t turn down a chance to take another peek,” Leske grinned. “Hey, could you tell Rica I killed him? I mean, it doesn’t do you any good if she thinks you’re the most virile warrior in all the stone.”

 

“You really want to say that while I’m holding a weapon?” Garik asked, his eyebrow raising humorously as he belted the axe and wrenched his dagger from the carta thug’s ribs.

 

“Good point,” Leske chuckled. “Fortunately, if Beraht’s got them trained the way he said he has, it should be a good long while before any guardsmen show up.”

 

* * *

 

Really, Lesk? Garik thought sourly. They were already surrounded. 

 

“Drop your weapons and walk down slowly,” said the Proving Master. “We will use force if you resist.” Garik snorted. Before the Master could continue a pair of familiar faces interrupted. It was Conrí of the Grey Wardens followed closely by Rica.

 

“I’m the victim here! I was kidnapped!” Garik snapped before the Proving Master could continue.

  
“You do not speak until the shapers have judged you!”  
  
“One moment, my friend,” Conrí spoke up. “Did you not suggest this Beraht might have arranged their convenient escape?”

 

“Regardless, the penalty for impersonating a higher caste is death.”

 

“If this Beraht is as influential as you say, perhaps he also masterminded with Everd’s impersonation.”

 

“Last I saw Beraht he was suffering a bad case of dead,” Garik snickered, thumbing the axe in his belt.

 

“He’s dead?” the Proving Master balked. “Beraht had many enemies but also powerful allies. They--”

 

“Beraht would have butchered us if he hadn’t killed him first!” Leske protested.

 

“Your friend has once again shown his courage,” Conrí told the casteless. “We Grey Wardens travel far and wide in search of those with the potential to join our ranks. It seems like I’ve found one. Let me make my offer formal then. I, Conrí Cousland, Lieutenant of the Grey, extend the invitation for you to join our order.”

 

“This man is a criminal!” the Proving Master protested. “You can’t do this!”

 

“I can and I am,” Conrí told the aged dwarf firmly. “It would mean travelling to the surface lands and thus leaving your people, but it allow you the chance to fight against the darkspawn and the Blight.”

 

“What’s the trick?” Garik asked, suspicious of this sudden charity.

 

“It’s no trick, but it is a dangerous life. I cannot promise your safety. Neither can I give you anything in return for these hazards. In joining us, you leave behind all you’ve known.”

 

Garik was silent for a long moment. “I’d like to talk to my sister before I decide.”

 

Conrí nodded in understanding. “I’d wager your friend would like a word with you as well. Why don’t you see what they have to say before you answer?”  


Rica darted forward. “I couldn’t believe it when Ser Conrí said he wanted to recruit you,” she gushed. “I was ready to kill you when I heard what you did at the Proving, but it worked out for the best.  
  
“What are you doing here, sis?” Garik asked.

 

“When I heard you’ve been arrested, I ran straight to the Proving Grounds, but you’d already disappeared. That’s when Ser Conrí said he wanted to invite you into the Grey Wardens. I almost fell over.”

 

Garik sighed and placed his gloved hand on his sister’s cheek. “I don’t want to leave you alone here,”

 

“Those are the rules of the order,” Rica told him sadly. “All Wardens leave their families behind.”

 

“But how will you take care of yourself and Mother?”

 

“Please don’t hold yourself back because of me. I think, for the first time, mother and I will be fine. I spent the afternoon with my new patron,” Rica went on, snickering at her brothers sour, slightly disgust look. “If everything works out… maybe I can even greet you as an equal if you return.”

 

“Truly? You won’t starve?”

 

“I promise. My patron would never allow it. He has already promised to move Mother and me into better lodging, where he can find me more quickly when he wants me.”

 

Garik smiled in spite of the stabbing image of his sister with some noble snob. “If I’m leaving I should tell Mother goodbye.”  
  
“When I left she was passed out,” Rica told him sourly. “I couldn’t even wake her to tell her you’d been arrested. Don’t let her ruin this day. I’ll tell her you’ve gone to the surface for a better life than she ever gave you.”

 

Garik kissed his sister on the brow before turning to Leske. “Those guys must have seriously cracked your skull,” Leske breathed. “You’re not going to turn down being a Grey Warden are you?”

 

“I don’t want to leave Rica...”

 

“Well don’t you worry about that,” Leske snickered. “Ol’ Leske’ll take care of her…”

 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Garik snorted with laughter. “You’re right, I should go.”  
  
“Well, go back and tell him yes before he comes to his senses!”

 

Garik nodded and strode over to where Conrí had elected to wait. A small number of other humans had joined him. “I take it you have spoken to your friend and sister?”

 

“I have,” Garik told him. “I accept, if you’ll have me.”

 

Conrí smiled. “Then before these witnesses, I welcome you to the Order. Ulrich,” he turned to a slightly older man with a bow across his back. “Take our new brother to one of the smiths and get him kitted out with proper armor and weapons.”

 

“Right away, Lieutenant,”

 

“Garik, we will meet you in the Diamond Quarter at the Warden’s retreat.”

 

Garik bowed and followed Ulrich.

 

 

 


	2. A Bird In A Gilded Cage

_ The Fade _

 

Tristan Surana grimaced as the rage demon fell to his onslaught of cold spells. He shook his hands to rid them of the hoarfrost that had gathered on them before turning his attention to the large black bear that had assisted him. Though this wasn’t a normal bear.

 

“You did it!” Mouse, the Fade bound Apprentice, celebrated, returning to his human form. “You actually did it! When you came, I hoped that maybe you might be able to… but I never really thought any of you were worthy.”

 

“Sounds like your help was unusual,” said Tristan, crossing his arms.

 

“You made me believe in you,” Mouse told him. “You’re a true mage, one of the few. The others; they never had a chance. The Templars set them up to fail, like they tried with you. I regret my part in it, but you have shown me that there is hope. You can be so much more than you know.”

 

Tristan sighed. “I understand necessity. What now?”

 

“You defeated a demon, you completed your test. With time, you will become a master enchanter with no equal. And maybe there’s hope in that for someone as small and as… forgotten as me. If you want to help. There may be a way for me to leave here, to get a foothold outside. You just need to want to let me in.”

 

Tristan’s eyes widened. It finally clicked. Mouse was no apprentice… in fact, he was wearing red Senior Enchanter’s robes. How did Tristan not notice before…? Of course, it was the Fade. And his words… You can be so much more than you know… you will become a master enchanter with no equal… “I’m starting to think the other demon wasn’t my test.”

 

“What?” Mouse sputtered. “What are you….? Of course it was! What else is here that could harm an apprentice of your potential?” Tristan glared at him. The indignant expression vanished and a small smirk grew on the spirit’s face. “You are a smart one.” Mouse’s voice changed, getting deeper and gaining a second underlying tone, sounding as if two entities were speaking at the same time. “Simple killing is a warrior’s job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust… Pride…” Tristan grimaced as Mouse’s body glowed white and extended upward. When the glow vanished, a hulking beast with twisted horns and seven spider-like eyes had taken the place of the mousey human. This was the true form of a Pride demon, just as Tristan suspected. “Keep your wits about you, mage,” it said as it vanished. “True tests… never end.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you alright?” came a voice as Tristan roused from his slumber. “Say something, please…”

 

“A demon,” Tristan growled, his hand crackling with lightning. “DIE!”

 

“It’s me, Jowan!” came the voice again as Tristan’s vision cleared. “Calm down! Just… try to relax.” Tristan sighed, the electricity dissipating. “I’m glad you’re all right. They carried you in this morning. I didn’t even realize you’d been gone all night.” Jowan was Tristan’s oldest friend, one of a sparse number. Being as gifted with magic had its downsides. “I’ve heard about apprentices who never come back from Harrowings. Is it really that dangerous? What was it like?”

 

“It was… harrowing…” Tristan grunted, as he sat up.

 

“Is that why they don’t tell us what it’s about? I know I’m not supposed to know… but we’re friends. Just a little hint, and I’ll stop asking, I promise!”  
  
“I had to enter the Fade,” Tristan told him.

 

“Really? That’s it?”

 

“And if a demon possesses you, they kill you,” Tristan finished. 

 

“That… makes sense. They want to see if you can resist a demon and stop yourself from becoming an abomination.” Jowan spent the next few minutes fretting about how he had yet to be called for his Harrowing before telling Tristan that First Enchanter Irving had requested his presence.

 

Tristan made his way through the library, chuckling as a nervous apprentice lost control of the campfire in front of him, headed for the stairs to the second floor. In the Senior Mage quarters, he spoke briefly with Cullen, one of the few Templars that Tristan had any respect for, before heading to Irving’s office. 

 

An angry and all too familiar voice echoed in the hall as he approached. “…. Many have already gone to Ostagar—Wynne, Uldred, and most of the senior mages! We’ve committed enough of our own to the war effort—”

 

“Your own?” came an older voice, chuckling with grim amusement. “Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision, where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?”  
  
Tristan came to the doorway as Knight-Commander Greagoir began to retort.

 

“Gentlemen, please,” a new voice interrupted. It came from a tall, black-haired human wearing a set of fine armor with a longsword on his back and a dagger at his hip. “Irving, someone is here to see you.”

 

Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving turned to see the young elf. The newcomer examined him. He was tall for an elf, likely as tall as Irving, his dark brown hair cut short and styled casually. The blue and purple robes hid most of his frame, but he was doubtlessly muscled wirily. “You called for me?” he asked of Irving.

 

“Ah, if it isn’t our new brother in the Circle. Come, child,” Irving beckoned his star pupil into the room.

 

“This is…?” the new man asked as he came even with Irving.

 

“Yes, this is he,” Irving said proudly.

 

“Well, Irving, you’re obviously busy,” Greagoir grumbled. “We will discuss this later.”

 

“Of course,” Irving said dismissively. “Well then…. Where was I? Oh, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Tristan told him, bowing slightly.

 

“You’ve heard about the war brewing to the south, I expect? Duncan is recruiting mages to join the king’s army at Ostagar.”

 

“Who are we fighting?” Tristan asked

 

“The darkspawn threat grows in the south,” Duncan told him. “We need all the help we can get.”

 

“What do you mean?”  


“The power you mages wield is an asset to any army. Your spells are very effective against large groups of mindless darkspawn. I fear if we don’t drive them back, we may see another Blight.”

 

“Duncan, you worry the poor lad with talk of Blights and darkspawn,” Irving chided the Warden. “This is a happy day for him.”

 

“We live in troubled times, my friend,” Duncan told him grimly.

 

“We should seize moments of levity, especially in troubled times. The Harrowing is behind you. Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi.”  
  
“My leash, you mean,” Tristan said bitterly.

 

“Now, child, it’s not that bad.”

 

“I’m sorry, what is this phylactery?” Duncan asked.

 

“Blood is taken from all apprentices when they first come to the tower and is preserved in special vials,” Irving explained.

 

“So they can be hunted if they turn apostate,” Duncan looked disapproving.

 

“We have few choices. The gift of magic is looked upon with suspicion and fear. We must prove we are strong enough to handle our power responsibly. You have done this,” Irving praised Tristan. “I present you with your robes, your staff, and a ring bear the Circle’s insignia. Wear them proudly, for you have earned them.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tristan nodded.

 

“It goes without saying that you shall not discuss the Harrowing with those who have not undergone the rite,” Irving raised his eyebrow in amusement as his star pupil gazed at him ‘innocently.’ Little escaped the First Enchanter’s notice in the tower. And besides, he knew the friendship he shared with Jowan. “Now then… take your time to rest, or study in the library. The day is yours.”

 

“Can I leave the tower?” Tristan asked, but wasn’t surprised at Irving’s answer.

 

“Not yet. Remember, the tower’s walls protect us as much as they protect others from us.”

 

“I will return to my quarters,” Duncan told the pair.

 

“Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan back to his room, Tristan?” Irving asked.

 

“It would be my pleasure.”

 

“The guest quarters are on the east side of this floor, close to the library. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have matters to discuss with Greagoir.”

 

Tristan nodded and walked back towards the door, Duncan trailing after him.

 

“Thank you for walking with me. I am glad for the company,” Duncan told Tristan as they walked.

 

“Of course. If you don’t mind me asking, why were Irving and Greagoir arguing about the war?” Tristan asked.

 

“It is not my place to comment, but Greagoir serves the Chantry, and the relationship between the Chantry and mages has always been strained. You’ve realized by now that the Chantry merely tolerates magic? They watch only because they feel they must.”

 

“I don’t see why the Chantry and mages can’t get along,” Tristan sighed.

 

“The Chantry believes that a mage should fear his power. It was the pride of mages, they say, that brought the darkspawn upon us in the first place. Any mages who join the king’s army can unleash their full power on the darkspawn. In fact, I’m counting on it. Greagoir may be afraid of what will happen. What if the mages decide they no longer want to be governed by the Chantry?”

 

“It’d be something at least…” Tristan muttered. He had no issue with most of what the Chantry taught, except what pertained to mages. He himself was blessed with a naturally deep mana pool, deeper than many more experienced mages, yet he felt no desire for more. He sought knowledge, true, but what he wished to know seemed harmless enough. But when he questioned a priest as to why verses speaking of the elven warrior Shartan had been stricken from the ‘Official’ Chant, the woman almost had a heart attack. “Do you know why Irving had wanted to see me, besides my robes and such?”

 

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Duncan chuckled.

 

Tristan laughed as well. “Come come, Duncan we both know Irving is as sly as an old fox. There’s rarely not a second or even third reason for him to do something. This wasn’t his most clever ploy though. Parading me around in front of one of the kings recruiters when he just so happened to be arguing with the Knight-Commander about the war. Then heaping on the praise with that damnable glint in his eye. If I know Irving, he wants me to be one of the mages sent to Ostagar. Am I right?”

 

“Irving was correct. You are as clever as they come, young Surana. Indeed. We shall see what comes of it,” Duncan smiled as they came to his quarters. “Thank you for escorting me.”

 

Tristan nodded and bowed slightly as he turned to head to his own room. He was still weary from his ordeal the night before. His mind was as sharp as ever but his body was protesting and a nap would be nice. 

 

But it seemed resting was not in the cards for him that day. Jowan had found him again. “I’m glad I caught up with you.”

 

* * *

 

“How do I find myself in these situations?” Tristan groaned as he slaughtered spider after spider, using his staff as a bludgeon even as he cast spells.

 

Jowan had revealed why he had been so nervous. He had led Tristan to the Chapel, making the elf worried Jowan had been brainwashed by Kelli, the tower’s resident head case. The last thing this place needed was two mages gibbering about their ‘curse.’

 

But in truth, Jowan had wanted to introduce Tristan to his lover. Jowan mentioned he had met a girl a number of months back, though Tristan had begun to doubt her existence. Not only did she exist, but she was a Chantry Initiate named Lily. And people say I like to play with fire Tristan thought. The news got even more unnerving as Jowan explained that the Knight-Commander authorized the Rite of Tranquility on him. There was a rumor going around that Jowan was a blood mage and the Templars feared what Jowan would be able to do if he were made a full mage. Jowan wanted to escape with Lily but to do that, they needed to destroy his phylactery. Tristan agreed to help, despite his misgivings, and went about obtaining a Rod of Fire from the Circle stockroom.

 

Owain, the Tranquil in charge of the stock, had given Tristan a form to be Signed by a senior Enchanter. The elf had found Leora, the newest Senior Enchanter, who agreed to sign the form in exchange for clearing the larger stockroom of a spider infestation.

 

Which is what brought Tristan to where he was now.

 

When all the spiders lay dead, Tristan wiped the blood from his new robes and made his way out.

 

* * *

 

“I have the Rod,” Tristan said as he reunited with Jowan and Lily.

 

“That was quick!” said Jowan.

 

“To the repository, then,” Lily gushed. “Freedom awaits.”

 

* * *

 

Turns out the rumors… weren’t rumors.

 

“NO! I WON’T LET YOU TOUCH HER!” Jowan drew a knife and sliced open his palm. Immediately, his aura turned red and he waved his hands. A tremendous wave of energy erupted from his palms, striking Irving, Greagoir, and the numerous Templars with them. Tristan caught a bit of the backwash and it tossed him a few feet and knocked the wind out of him.

 

The newly Harrowed mage’s mind went blank. The only thought floating around was He lied to me…

 

Tristan peeled himself from the ground, groaning as his weary and sore body screamed in protest. He walked swiftly over to Irving’s side, channeling his mana into one of the few healing spells he could use with any precision. Irving stirred after a long moment, lifting his head from the ground. “Are you alright?” Irving asked as soon as he recognized Tristan. “Where’s Greagoir?”

 

The aged Templar rose with a cough. “I knew it. Blood magic… but to overcome so many… I never thought him capable of such power.”

 

“He lied to me,” Tristan muttered, getting angrier by the second.

 

“None of us expected this,” Irving assured his pupil as the young man helped him to his feet. “Are you alright, Greagoir?”

 

“As good as can be expected given the circumstances! If you had let me act sooner, this would not have happened! Where is the girl?” When Jowan’s blood magic had been revealed, the Initiate had been all too eager to backpedal from him.

 

“I am here, ser,” Lily spoke quietly.

 

“You helped a blood mage!” Greagoir snapped. “Look at all he’s hurt!”

 

“You forced Jowan’s hand!” Tristan growled.

 

“Knight-Commander, I… I was wrong. I was accomplice to a… a blood mage,” Lily stammered.

 

“Ungrateful bitch,” Tristan muttered. Lily looked scandalized but before she could protest Tristan went on. “He was willing to risk his own execution just to be with you and as soon as things started going pear shaped, you scrambled away from him faster than a Templar can say lyrium. But what else could I expect of a Chantry boot licker?”

 

“Get her out of my sight!” Greagoir snapped. “And you,” the Knight-Commander’s ire turned towards the mage. “You know why the repository exists. Some artifacts, some magicks, are locked away for a reason!”

 

“Did you take anything important from the repository?” Irving asked.

 

“This staff,” Tristan handed it to Irving. “I needed a replacement after one of those damn sentinels snapped my other one. Take it, I don’t need it now.”

 

“Hmph, some honesty at least,” Greagoir muttered. “But your antics have made a mockery of this Circle! Ah… what are we to do with you?”  
  
“I had no idea he was a blood mage,” Tristan defended himself, his anger rising again.

 

“And you think this excuses you? You helped a blood mage escape. All our prevention measures for naught -- because of you!”

 

“Knight-Commander, if I may,” Duncan came forward much to Tristan’s surprise. “I am not only looking for mages to join the king’s army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens. Irving spoke highly of this mage, and I would like him to join the Warden ranks.”

 

“Duncan,” Irving sighed. “This mage has assisted a maleficar, and shown a lack of regard for the Circle’s rules.”

 

“He is a danger,” Greagoir agreed. “To us all.”

 

“It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need,” Duncan insisted. “I stand by my decision. I will recruit this mage.”

 

“No!” Greagoir snapped. “I refuse to let this go unpunished!”

 

Tristan smirked, though there was no humor in the expression. “If the Grey Wardens will have me, I will gladly go.”

 

“Greagoir, mages are needed,” Duncan told the irate Templar. “This mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages. You know that. I will take this mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for his actions.”

 

“A blood mage escapes and his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewards by becoming a Grey Warden,” Greagoir growled. “Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving.”

 

“Enough,” Irving grunted. “We have no more say in this matter.”

 

“So I am to be a Grey Warden?” Tristan smirked at his old mentor.

 

“Yes. Be proud, Tristan. You are luckier than you know.”

 

Tristan nodded. “Perhaps the Grey Wardens will appreciate my talent more.”

 

“You will have ample opportunity to hone your skills, I assure you,” Duncan told him. “Come, your new life awaits.”

 

Tristan followed the Warden to the Entrance hall. “So, you’re finally getting out of here, Surana?” asked a voice.

 

Tristan turned to see a young woman in yellow mage robes standing just to the left of the heavy security doors. Her black hair was brushed behind her shoulders and her bright purple eyes were alight with amusement. “Yep, and you’re stuck here, Xolana.”

 

Xolana snickered as she pushed herself off the wall and walked over to her childhood friend. “Well, don’t go getting eaten by darkspawn, Surana. Last thing I need to here is Greagoir strutting around telling everyone he was right.”

 

“Oh, Maker forbid I make your life harder,” Tristan chuckled.

 

Xolana laughed. “Take care of yourself, Surana,” she said, hugging him briefly.

 

“You too, Amell.”

 

 


	3. Child of Aeducan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place about a week after Chapter 1.

Serena Aeducan, second child and only daughter of King Endrin, stood before her bedroom mirror to make sure her armor was on correctly. A knock came from behind her. She turned to see her second, Gorim Saelac, leaning against the opening in the divider of her room. “Greetings, my lady. You are dressed and ready. Excellent. I couldn’t find the armor’s matching dagger, but I scrounged up a rather fancy longsword. Do you wish to wear your shield to the noble’s feast?”

  
“Yes,” Serena told him, taking the sword and belting it to her waist. “Let them see me as a warrior.”

 

Gorim chuckled. “As opposed to the Paragon of Beauty?”

 

Serena turned to him with a wicked smile. “Close the door. I’ll show you a Paragon of Beauty.”

 

“Ha! Don’t you remember how this game goes?” Gorim asked. “I get undressed, then one of your brothers or cousins appears and thrashes me. I’ll take my chances somewhere outside the palace if you don’t mind. Perhaps after the feast? Well… thoughts for later I suppose.” 

 

Later… right… Serena thought. As though you aren’t thinking of it right now. Then again, who am I to criticize? 

 

“Moving on to the business at hand. The king expects you to make an appearance at the feast, but there’s no rush. The noble family heads will no doubt spend hours boring your father with petitions and petty grievances.”  
  
“What sort of grievances?”  
  
“The usual,” Gorim told her, his tone bored and sarcastic. “‘This lord had my cousin killed.’ ‘This lord seduced my wife.’ ‘This lord did the exact thing I’d planned to do to him, but he did it first.’” Serena chuckled at her second’s antics. “They pose and bluster and each pretends he is the honorable man in a den of thieves and assassins. Bah… the rest is worth seeing though. As part of the celebrations, permits have been auctioned off to members of the Merchant Caste who wished to sell wares in the Diamond Quarter. Lord Harrowmont has also opened up the Provings for young warriors to test their mettle before tomorrow’s battle. Rumor has it that Harrowmont hopes you’ll be swept off your feet if a well-placed young noblemen wins the Provings in your honor.”  
  
“Should I tell him I already have all the man I need?” Serena flirted.

 

“Why not?” Gorim shrugged with a grin. “I’ll just wear a sign that says, ‘Assassinate me before Lady Aeducan marries beneath her.’ Better yet, let’s just enjoy the time we have before the feast.”

 

“The Proving sounds appealing. Let’s go have a look.”

 

“With you as always, my lady. The day is ours before the feast.”

 

The princess and her second made their way towards the main hall of the Royal Palace. As they neared Serena’s brother Bhelen’s room, the door opened. “Prince Bhelen?” a red haired woman poked her head out the door. When her eyes found Serena, she paled almost alarmingly. “Oh… I… I am sorry my lady…” she retreated into the room. 

 

Serena turned with a quizzical expression to Gorim, who shrugged and followed as Serena entered her brother’s room. The young woman stood near Bhelen’s bed, almost shaking with fear as Serena approached. “I… I’m sorry. I thought you were Prince Bhelen coming down the hall. I… forgive me.”  
  
“Who are you?” Serena asked gently.

 

“She’s… er… it seems she’s one of your brother Bhelen’s newest… um, companions,” Gorim told her, embarrassment marring his tone. “Prince Bhelen is attending the feast being held in Lady Aeducan’s honor.”

 

“Yes, of… of course,” the woman mumbled, diligently avoiding looking Serena in the face. “It was presumptuous of me to think he would return to… I am sorry. I will show myself out, with your leave my lady…”

 

“There’s no need for that,” Serena told her. “I will let Bhelen know you are awaiting his return.”

 

“I… thank you my lady,” the mistress bowed low. Serena nodded and took her leave. Back in the hall, she turned back to Gorim.

 

“My lady?” he asked as they continued on.

 

Serena sighed. “Must you always be so formal?” she asked.

 

“You never know who might be listening, my lady. It’s safer this way.”

 

“Well, tell me about your family, Gorim.”

 

“Not much that you don’t already know,” Gorim admitted. “My father’s father was a great hero of the Deep Roads excursions and raised the family to the top of the Warrior Caste. He was even nominated to join the Assembly and found a noble house, but the honor was in the nomination; he wasn’t afforded a single vote. My father served yours for many years, and now I serve you.”

 

“Are you excited about the battle tomorrow?”

 

“Yes. I yearn to face the darkspawn and prove my worth as your second.”

 

“We’ll be spectacular,” Serena grinned, clapping Gorim on the shoulder.

 

“May the Stone support us and the ancestors look down with pride.”

 

The pair shoved the great doors of the palace open and strode out into the Diamond Quarter. “Please, Master Vollney,” a voice begged. A middle aged man wearing the robes of a scholar cowered before a broad chested warrior with a long black beard. Serena recognized Scholar Gertek and Bruntin Vollney. “My work is accredited by the shaper!”

 

“These books are lies written by the enemies of House Vollney!” Bruntin growled.

 

“I write only what I find in the ancient records!” Gertek spotted Serena as she and Gorim approached. “Lady Aeducan!” he implored. “You can vouch for my work, can’t you? Your father loved my ‘History of Aeducan: Paragon, King, Peacemaker!’”

 

“Ah, I greatly enjoyed that book as well,” Serena told him with a warm smile.

 

“This… worm has written a book that slanders my house!” Bruntin exclaimed.

 

“What does it say?” Serena asked politely. She had never much liked Bruntin. He was always a bit of a blowhard.

 

“It doesn’t matter! It’s all lies!”

 

Serena sighed. “Tell me what it says, scholar.”

 

“My work tells the stories of all those raised to Paragon in the last five hundred years. When the Assembly names a Paragon, that man or woman is then, by definition, everything one can aspire to be in the world. They form their own noble houses and are revered as living ancestors. But Paragons start off as men.”

 

“Vollney was more than a man!” Bruntin insisted angrily.

 

“What was Aeducan like before he was a Paragon?” Serena asked.

 

“Aeducan was much loved, but he was still a man,” Gertek told her fairly. “He was plagued by melancholy, and his fervor regarding Orzammar’s safety bordered on obsession. When Aeducan was proposed as a Paragon, only one lord in the Assembly objected. The others savagely hacked him to death. Aeducan’s motion passed without a single dissenting vote.”

 

“Unlike Vollney!” Bruntin snapped. “Is that what you mean, old man?”

 

“Vollney became a Paragon by the narrowest margin in history--one vote. A vote mired in rumors ofintimidation, intrigue, and outright bribery. The record of that vote are kept in the Shaperate and are a matter of fact,” Gertek turned to Bruntin. “Not liking history doesn’t make it any less true!”

 

“The scholar is right,” Serena told Bruntin.

 

“You’re taking his side?” Bruntin demanded. “What if he published a book like this about your Paragon Aeducan?”

 

“The truth is more important than your pride,” Serena snapped, finally losing her patience.

 

“You would not say so if it was your house, but I shall respect your wishes. For now,” Real subtle Serena thought. “Excuse me your Highness.”

 

Gorim glared after Bruntin. “That fool has no idea how weak his house is or how low he sits in it. Shall I have him killed my lady?”

 

“What do you think, scholar?” Serena asked. Gertek seemed surprised he was asked his opinion.

 

“Well…” he said carefully. “Historically, it has been prudent to eliminate a small threat before it becomes larger…”

 

“Hear that, Gorim?” Serena asked. “Do the prudent thing.”

 

“How do you want it done?” Gorim prompted.

 

“Quietly. An accident, preferably.”

 

“Understood,” Gorim moved to give the orders.

 

“You’ve shown yourself more daring and aggressive today than most believed of you,” Gertek praised. “Someday, I hope to write of the great exploits you are sure to perform.”

 

“Word has been sent,” Gorim announced as he returned. “He won’t live past the hour.”

 

“You’ve shown House Aeducan a friend to research, history, and the glory of our people,” Gertek went on.

 

“You’ll remember this when you write of me,” Serena chuckled.

 

“Of course. Heroism and pity for the small man have always been hallmarks of House Aeducan. Now I must try to make sense of these notes. Good day, your Highness, and thank you.”

 

Serena nodded and made her way past the scholar. After examining numerous goods, Serena ran into the one person she had dreaded seeing that day. Trian, her elder brother was standing in the middle of the Diamond Quarter.

 

“Atrast vala, big sister!” Bhelen greeted her. “How surprising to run into you out amongst the common folk.”

 

“Especially since duty requires that you attend our king father at the feast today,” Trian growled. “Have you so little respect for him to disregard his wishes on a day set aside for you?”

 

Gorim moved to defend Serena. “Lord Harrowmont told me we wouldn’t be needed for hours at least--”

 

“Silence!” Trian snapped. “If I want the opinion of my sibling’s second, I will ask for it.”

 

“Yes, your Highness…” Gorim muttered.

 

“Don’t speak to Gorim like that,” Serena bristled.

 

“I will speak to lower houses and castes as they should be spoken to. Now do as I say.”

 

“Bhelen, you want to jump in here?” Serena asked her younger sibling.

 

“You’re on your own. I’ve been dealing with him all afternoon,” Bhelen muttered.

 

“What exactly is that supposed to mean, little brother?” Trian growled.

 

“Nothing, Trian. I’ve been having a great time. The speech you gave the legless boy about hard work and making something of himself was fantastic,” Bhelen said sarcastically.

 

“As heir to the throne, it is my duty to impart wisdom and judgment upon those who need it,” Trian told him. “Now then, you,” he barked at Serena. “Get to the feast.”

 

“It’s cute how you think you can order me around,” Serena sneered.

 

“I’d advise you to watch that tongue, dear sibling,” Trian growled as he walked past. “Father will not live forever. Come, Bhelen!”

 

Bhelen followed his eldest sibling, shooting Serena an apologetic look. “That was fun. Nothing like being talked down to by the next king,” Gorim muttered, glowering after Trian.

 

“He means well,” Serena sighed. Until a few years ago, Serena and Trian had gotten on well. But when Serena began making a name for herself, Trian had gotten colder and colder.

 

“You always defend him. I wish I had your understanding.”

 

Serena nodded sadly and continued on her way, Gorim just behind her. The two approached a weapon’s merchant. “Greetings, My Lady Aeducan,” he said with a small bow. “I am… so honored to have you visit my booth I have a… proposition, but I dared not approach.”

 

“Yet you dare now?” Gorim questioned.

 

“It’s alright,” Serena assured him. “I’ll hear him out.”

 

“Very well, then. Speak,” Gorim ordered gruffly.

 

“Um yes, just so… here’s the thing. What I mean to say is…” the merchant didn’t seem to know how to begin. One poorly chosen word could mean a mortal offence.

 

“It’s all right,” Serena smiled.

 

“Sorry. So nervous… I had a dagger made. For you. As a gift for your first command. I, uh, sent a messenger to deliver the dagger to you. Prince Trian had him thrown out. I don’t know what offense he caused, but I had him beaten severely.”

 

“Let me see this dagger,”

 

“Here… here it is, your Highness,” the merchant handed Serena a long leaf bladed dagger in a sheath. Serena drew it, admiring the craftsmanship and the sparks of lightning that arched around the blade.

 

“That’s an amazing piece, merchant,” Gorim praised as Serena passed it to him to admire.

 

“You do me much honor, ser. The blade has been crafted over a period of two years by masters of every art. I wish to bless the Lady’s first command, and hope that someday, when she rules, she will wear it.”

 

“Trian is heir,” Gorim informed him, more gently than before as he returned the blade to Serena. “He will rule when King Endrin returns to the Stone.”

 

“If the Assembly wills it,” the merchant said respectfully. “Forgive me ser, but whispers say the second child of Endrin will be chosen.”

 

“Whispers indeed,” Gorim agreed. “It’s a princely gift. If Trian recognizes it, though, it may send the wrong message. Or the right one, depending on your view.”

 

“Damn what Trian thinks. I’ll take it,” Serena said a bit bitterly as she tied the scabbard to her belt opposite her sword and resheathed the dagger.

 

“Thank you!” the merchant bowed low. “You bring me uncountable honor.”

 

“What he means is that you’ll bring uncountable gold to him if you wear that piece in public,” Gorim chuckled.

 

Serena joined him as the merchant flushed. With a nod to the now red-faced merchant, Serena took her leave.

 

“My lady,” a young man bowed slightly as she approached the doors leading to the Commons. “Are you headed to the Proving Arena?”

 

“Aye. I intend to watch the Provings.”

 

“We have been charged with the task of escorting you to the grounds.”

 

Gorim slapped his forehead with a chagrined look. “I clean forgot about that. Forgive me, I should have informed you sooner. The king decided you are not to travel through the commons unguarded.”

 

“What? Why?” Serena asked, alarmed.

 

“I did mention the merchants that won permits to show their goods in the Diamond Quarter? There were only so many permits auctioned off and quite a few were turned away. Your father fears you will be harassed on the way to the Proving.”

 

“This is silly,” Serena groaned. “But I will comply.” Anything to put Father’s mind at ease.

  
“Will we be leaving then?” the escort asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“We are at your command.”

 

* * *

 

Serena, Gorim and three escorts marched through the Orzammar Commons. As they neared the intersection that led to the Proving Arena, a dwarf in grey studded leather armor bumped into Serena. “Oh, pardon me… My Lady Aeducan?” the dwarf seemed a little alarmed at who had collided with.

 

“Mind where you step, Brand!” Gorim snapped, eyeing the tattoo on the man’s cheek.

 

“Wait!” Serena barked. “I know this man. He’s a Warden. Isn’t that right, Garik Brosca.”

 

“You’ve heard of me? I am honored, My Lady,” Garik bowed extravagantly.

 

“So you’re the one who disrupted the Proving last week?” Serena asked. Garik nodded, looking a mite embarrassed. “Good for you.” The new Warden looked up in surprise. “Those old nug chasers need their beards ruffled now and again.”

 

“As you say, My Lady,” Garik chuckled. “I won’t take a moment more of your time. Good day.” Serena nodded and continued on her way. “Oh, one last thing, Lady Aeducan.” Serena turned back and caught a coin purse. Her eyes widened as she felt her side. “Old habits die hard.”

 

Serena chuckled. “Well, I suppose even a princess needs to be brought down a peg on occasion.”

 

* * *

 

Serena grinned to herself as she entered the throne room, the Proving ceremonial helm tucked under her arm. Having decided to enter the Proving herself, she had won the whole thing, defeating every warrior of note, including Frandlin Ivo and Ser Blackstone, her old teacher. The dagger had come in handy during the fight with Blackstone in particular. He’d managed to get her sword from her and went for a finishing strike when Serena drew the new blade and slashed it across Ser Blackstone’s chest, giving her the victory.

 

“Look!” Gorim pointed to a tall human with a Greatsword across his back. “The Grey Wardens are here! Tomorrow’s raid must be more than a standard mission.” Serena, ever curious and appreciative of living legends, made her way over to the Warden.

 

“Greetings, My Lady Aeducan,” said the Warden, bowing. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

 

“The honor is mine, Warden,” Serena inclined her head.

 

“I’ve had the opportunity to recently meet with your father. He speaks highly of you. He says you may be the most skilled warrior in all of House Aeducan.”

 

“My father exaggerates,” Serena blushed slightly.

 

The Warden chuckled. “Your humility aside, I have no doubt you will be a fighter of great renown. We need more Grey Wardens like you and quickly. Even as the darkspawn weaken here in Orzammar, they are stirring on the surface. A Blight has begun. Soon the fight must go beyond the Deep Roads, before the darkspawn threaten the entire world.”

 

“Are there many of my people in the Grey Wardens? Well, besides Brosca, of course.”

 

“Many dwarves have made names for themselves over the centuries in our order. But, these days, there are fewer dwarves and even fewer dwarven Grey Wardens. A pity, since dwarven warriors have the most experience fighting darkspawn.”

 

“What does joining entail?” Serena asked.

 

The Warden’s eyes seemed to sadden. “Being a Grey Warden means abandoning all ties to your old life. It means dedicating yourself to destroying the darkspawn.”

 

“I am an Aeducan. Orzammar needs me here,” Serena told him with a touch of regret.

 

“Then it’s a good thing you have other paths before you. Some are not so lucky. I wish you luck in the Deep Roads tomorrow. Show the darkspawn the might of your people.” Serena bowed and she joined Gorim to continue on.

 

The pair approached the throne where an elderly dwarf with white hair and braided beard was holding court with a pair of deshyrs. “Denial of the traditions of our people does not qualify as a political technicality!” King Endrin barked. “There is more to life than monetary gains, my lords Bemot and Meino. The Assembly of Kal Sharok will respect the rule of Orzammar, or they will rot and die alone, surrounded by enemies.

 

“Yes my king,” Lord Meino bowed.

 

“But look, we have company to spare us further wrangling. Atrast vala, my sweet daughter. How fine you look in your grandmother’s armor.” Serena kneeled before her father, placing her helm in the ground. “I hear you were declared champion of the Provings!” Endrin chuckled fondly. “I suppose you were never one to sit by when something exciting was going on. Are you ready to be presented to the heads of the noble houses?”

 

“Is this all really necessary?” Serena asked a bit nervously.

 

“These rituals have their place. It behooves you to get to know the nobles and let them know you. Lords, ladies!” he called out. Grant me a moment of your time.” The numerous deshyrs turned to their king. I would like to present to you my second eldest child, Serena. Blessed by the Stone and born of the blood that ran in the veins of the Paragon Aeducan. Who would pose a question to the prospective commander? Who wishes to know the prospect better? No? Very well, then, the ritual is complete. I give you Orzammar’s next commander!” the deshyrs cheered, raising mugs of ale and clapping. “Tomorrow, our newest commander will lead part of a mission to strike a great blow to the darkspawn. Not only does this recover access to some of our most important mines but it also allows out honored guest Conrí, Lieutenant of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, to strike far into the Deep Roads.”

 

“Thank you King Endrin,” Conrí bowed his head. “While the darkspawn seem to withdraw, it is only because they are massing on the surface. This could mean a blight, and my men and I will discover the truth.”

 

“We are honored to have you with us, my friend,” Endrin told the young human. “Now, feast, drink and celebrate, for the morning brings battle!” Another cheer echoed in the throne room. “As for you, my new commander, find your brother Trian and send him to me.”

 

“Of course, Father,” Serena bowed.

 

“Walk well, Commander,” Endrin smiled fondly as he bowed in return.

 

* * *

 

Serena panted slightly as she, along with Gorim, Frandlin Ivo and the unnamed scout marched through the old Aeducan thaig. Bhelen’s words the night before still troubled her. Could Trian truly be moving against her? The evidence was damning. She had found an Aeducan signet ring on the body of a mercenary they had run into while searching for the shield of the Paragon Aeducan. Said shield now rested on her back and she was now on her way back to the rendezvous point to deliver it.

 

Serena stopped to catch her breath. “If Trian were really scheming against us, this would be the perfect place for an ambush,” Gorim muttered. “We’ve got the shield, and we’re all alone out here.”

 

“Keep your wits about you then,” Serena advised.

 

“Of course.”

 

“What’s that you’re muttering about?” the scout asked.

 

Serena sighed, deciding not to lie. “My brother Trian may try to ambush us.”

 

“Fantastic. As if the darkspawn weren’t enough to worry about.”

 

“Just keep your eyes open,” Gorim grumbled.

 

As they neared the rendezvous point, Serena began to smell blood. Not darkspawn blood. It had to be dwarven. She quickened her pace. What she found horrified her. An entire squad of men lay about the room, slaughtered to the last. Serena quickly approached the man at the center.

 

“By the Stone… It’s Trian!” Gorim barked.

 

“It must have been a darkspawn attack,” Ivo contemplated.

  
“This doesn’t look like darkspawn,” said the scout. “No bites, no scratches, no mutilation…”

 

“We need to warn my father,” Serena announced, fighting back tears. For all their problems, Trian was still her brother.

 

“Someone’s coming!” Gorim and the others fell back. Serena removed her helmet, drew her axe and stood in front of her brother’s body, tears now pouring down her face. She might not have been able to save her brother, but she wouldn’t let the darkspawn take him. 

 

When she spotted Bhelen, her father and all their men enter the tunnel, she began to lower her shield. Endrin halted when she spotted his eldest son before shoving his men out of the way to kneel next to Trian. Serena stood aside, her shield arm falling to her side and axe went back into her belt. Her head bowed as more tears rolled freely down her cheeks.

 

“My daughter…” Endrin spoke in a hoarse voice. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

 

Serena turned to her father, horror written on her face. He thought…. “We just got here a moment ago.”

 

“Just long enough to slay Trian!” Bhelen barked.

  
“My lady is innocent!” Gorim protested. 

 

“Ser Gorim, your loyalty makes you a useless witness,” said Pyral Harrowmont, one of Endrin’s top advisers. “It falls to others to tell the story. You, scout, what happened here?”  
  
“Trian and his men were here early. It seems they’d done battle with the darkspawn. Lady Aeducan came up to them, all friendly-like, but when we got close, she ordered us to attack!”

 

Serena was stunned into silence. Gorim, however, was not. “That’s a lie!” he spat.

 

“Then we shall discover the truth,” Harrowmont quieted the angry warrior. “Frandlin Ivo, you are a good and noble man. Did the scout speak the truth?”

 

“He… he did, my lord,” Ivo spoke haltingly. “It was… terrible. Prince Trian didn’t stand a chance. Afterward, my lady stripped his signet ring.”

 

“You treacherous bastard!” Gorim roared.

 

“Silence, Gorim,” Endrin barked. “Do you have anything to say, Serena?”

 

“How can you not see that this is a set up?” Serena balked.

 

“I want to believe that, I really do…”

 

“Bind her,” Harrowmont told the soldiers traveling with them. “She will be judged before the Assembly. To Orzammar.”

 

* * *

 

Serena sat in her cell, slumped against the far wall with her head in her hands. Her makeup had run from her tears, leaving streaks down her cheeks. How could her father believe that she killed her own brother?

 

A clanking of metal not far caused her to raise her head. As far as she knew, she was the only one down in these cells. “Only ten minutes, ser. I have orders, you understand.”

 

“Of course,” a familiar voice answered. “Give us some privacy, won’t you?” Serena bolted up as Gorim came into view. “My lady… I… I would have come sooner had they allowed it. How are you?”

 

“I was worried for you,” Serena whispered hoarsely.

 

“And I for you, my heart. I bring little but bad news though. Bhelen has taken Trian’s place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately, and it easily passed. He… had fully half the Assembly ready to vote on something completely against tradition and justice. He must have been making deals and alliances for months if not years.”

 

Serena gave a sad chuckle. “You have to respect Bhelen’s ability to play the game.”

 

“He’s more clever than either of us ever thought,” Gorim agreed with a slightly twisted smile. “Some of the lords, especially Harrowmont, are suspicious of Bhelen’s instant rise to power. They are rallying, but far too slowly. The Assembly has already sentenced us both.”

 

“What’s going to happen to you?” Serena asked worriedly.

 

“My knighthood will be stripped, my name torn from the family records… but I will be allowed to attempt some sort of life on the surface. Lord Harrowmont moved for a similar exile for you, but Bhelen’s supporters overwhelmed him. You’re to be sealed in the deep roads to fight darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed.”

 

Serena was quiet for a long moment. “What does my father say about this?”

 

“Lord Harrowmont says the king has taken ill. He couldn’t bear losing two of his children at once,” Gorim told her sadly. “Lord Harrowmont gave me access to see you so I could tell you this: Conrí and the Grey Wardens are still in the Deep Roads, in tunnels connected to those you are to be left in. If you survive long enough to find the Grey Wardens, you may be able to escape with Conrí.”

 

“The Grey Wardens seemed good men,” Serena agreed.

 

“There are worse ways for a warrior to live than fighting the darkspawn with such allies. If you can find them, I’m sure you can join them and escape the Deep Roads.”

 

“Only darkspawn between me and freedom?” Serena asked, a glimmer of hope beginning to shine in her heart.

 

“Bhelen underestimated you. Much as we underestimated him,” Gorim smiled sadly. “I begged to go with you and fight at your side, but Bhelen’s pet nobles wouldn’t hear of it.”

 

“I wish you were going to be at my side as well,” Serena told him.

 

“I’m going to try to go to Denerim, the human capital. If you make it out, find me,” Gorim turned to leave but a familiar hand grabbed his.

 

“Wait, please,” Serena begged quietly.

 

“We have no time, my heart,” Gorim whispered.

 

“Just… hold me one last time.”

 

“The guards won’t keep quiet about something like that. Your family will know…”

 

“Who cares what people think now?” Serena asked.

 

Gorim sighed. “As you say, my dearest one,” As best as he could with the cold iron bars between them, he embraced Serena for what would likely be the last time. Too soon for either, Gorim was forced break away. “I must go now. I will always love you, my lady.”

 

* * *

 

Serena grimaced as her blade snapped over a Genlock’s skull. “Fine dwarven make, eh, you old bastard?” she tossed aside the ruined sword Harrowmont had given her before sealing her in the Deep Roads. She’d been down here for hours, barely having time to rest since time was of the essence. She had to catch up to Conrí and the other Wardens. 

 

She grabbed a twisted axe from the hand of the Genlock she had just killed and continued on. Not far into the tunnel, she heard the familiar echoes of battle. Quickening her pace, she exited one tunnel into one of the main Roads. The Wardens were surrounded by darkspawn, outnumbered ten to one.

 

And they were winning. Arrows flew from the two archers, each bolt finding it’s mark in the chest of a darkspawn solider. Garik Brosca, the rogue from Dust Town stabbing the beasts with almost alarming efficiency, but it was their leader who truly surprised Serena.

 

She had thought the large sword he carried was just for show, but she was wrong. Conrí was using the blade with amazing dexterity. A single strike was rare for him. Most of the time, he would take the momentum of the first swing to propel himself into a second or even third, cutting down darkspawn all the while. One of the few single swings he took lopped the heads of three Genlocks simultaneously.

 

Once she snapped out of her shock, Serena charged in with a roar. She cleaved the spine of a Hurlock getting ready to split Garik’s head open with its mace. The haze of battle soon took over and when it finally lifted, Serena saw Conrí pivot on the ball of his foot and shove the entire length of his blade through the gut of a Hurlock.

 

Serena was amazed still further. While she was panting like a Bronto, the humans seemed barely winded. “Lady Aeducan?” Conrí asked. “What are you doing here alone? Where are your troops?”

 

Serena panted for a moment before catching her breath. “I am Lady Aeducan no longer.”

 

Conrí grimaced. “You have been made to walk the Deep Roads then.”

 

“You mean you were exiled?” asked Ulrich. “What happened?”

 

“That’s hardly our business,” Conrí chided the man. “You don’t have to answer that, my friend.”

 

“I was betrayed by my brother,” Serena grunted.

 

“Lord Trian?” Conrí asked.

 

“No, Bhelen. Trian is dead.”

 

Conrí sighed. “The brutal intrigue of the dwarven court continues. Your father hinted as much. There’s no reason to walk these Roads and die for something you didn’t do. You’ve already proven yourself both resourceful and skilled. I would expect nothing less from an Aeducan. As Lieutenant of the Fereldan Grey, I would like to formally invite you to join our order.”

 

“I would be honored.”

 

“So we’re taking a noble with us now?” Garik asked, nudging Serena jocularly. Serena shoved him playfully.

 

“We have one more stop to make before we meet King Cailan in the south,” Conrí told them.

 

“Where?” Serena asked.

 

“Highever.”

 


	4. Under the Branches of the Vhenadahl

 

_ Denerim Alienage _

 

Blair Tabris chewed her lip worriedly as one of Vaughn’s men carried the unconscious lord from the Alienage.

 

“Oh, I really messed up this time,” her cousin Shianni murmured. She had been the one to knock out Vaughn Urien, the arl of Denerim’s son, with a ceramic wine bottle.

 

“It’ll be alright. He won’t tell anyone an elven woman took him down,” Soris assured her.

 

“I hope so,” Shianni grimaced. “I should get cleaned up.”

 

“Is everyone else alright?” Soris asked as he looked around.

 

“I think we’re all just shaken,” said a mousy elf woman Blair didn’t know. “What was that about?”

 

Soris laughed nervously. “Looks like the arl’s son started drinking too early. Um,” he turned to Blair as a man joined them. “Well, let’s not let this ruin the day. This is Valora, my betrothed,” Soris gestured to the woman.

 

“Then this handsome man must be Nelaros,” Blair smiled, adjusting one of the many braids in her ash-blonde hair. Nelaros returned the grin.

 

“I am a lucky man to be so warmly welcomed,” he said.

 

“I’m sure the two of you have a lot to discuss,” Soris and Valora walked a few feet away.

 

“Well, here we are,” Nelaros cleared his throat nervously. “Are you nervous?”

“Sort of nauseated, actually,” Blair told him with an apologetic grin.

 

“I thought I’d stay calm, but now we’ve met… let’s just say… I’m not calm.”

 

Blair cast her mind around for something to talk about. “How was the trip from Highever?” she asked finally.

 

“Uneventful, thankfully,” Nelaros told her, relieved. “The trade caravan we accompanied had little of value; I think that kept bandits away.”

 

“Come on, Cousin,” Soris muttered. “We should let them get ready.”

 

“We’ll see you in a bit,” Valora smiled. “Don’t disappear on us,” she added, laughter in her tone.

 

“Or we’ll come find you,” Nelaros gibed as well. The pair of newcomers walked off.

 

“Don’t look now,” Soris murmured to Blair. “But we have another problem.”

 

“Is it Vaughn?” Blair asked, her former worry returning.

 

“Another human and an elf just walked in,” Soris pointed towards the gates. A tall middle aged man stood near the Vhenadahl, looking around with some interest. His companion, an elf in yellow and blue robes, seemed to be extremely uncomfortable. “Could be some of Vaughn’s or just random troublemakers.”

 

“One human and an elf shouldn’t cause much trouble,” Blair assured him.

 

“I’m more worried about some of our boys. Wine is flowing and I don’t think we want another incident.”

 

Blair sighed and straightened her dress, wishing now more than ever she hadn’t let her father convince her not wear her daggers under her clothes. “Alright. let’s go talk to them.”

 

“Let’s do this quickly.”

 

The cousins quickly made their way across the courtyard of the Alienage. “Good day,” said the human as they approached. “I understand congratulations are in order for your impending wedding.”

 

“Thank you,” Blair said politely, taking the lead as she usually did. “But please go. I’d rather avoid any unpleasantness.”

 

The human chuckled benignly. “What manner of unpleasantness might you be referring to?”

 

“The Alienage just isn’t a good place for humans to be.”

 

“I’m sorry, but I have no intention of leaving,” the human said politely but firmly.

 

“Fine,” Blair sighed. “Maybe we can compromise.”

 

The human smiled. “She keeps her composure, even when facing down an unknown and armed human. A true gift, wouldn’t you say, Valendrian?”

 

“I would say the world has far more use of those who know how to stay their blades,” Valendrian, the Alienage hahren, or elder, approached the group. “It is good to see you again, my old friend. It has been far too long.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Blair murmured. “I had no idea…”

 

“I was hardly forthcoming, and for that I apologize,” the human told her.

“May I present Duncan, head of the Grey Wardens in Fereldan,” Valendrian gestured to the human.

 

“Well met, Duncan,” said Blair, offering her hand.

 

“And you, dear girl,” Duncan chuckled as he shook her hand.

 

“But my question remains unanswered. Why are you here, Duncan?”“The worst has happened: a Blight has begun. King Cailan summons the Grey Wardens to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn horde alongside his armies.”“Yes…” Valendrian acknowledged hesitantly. “I had heard the news. Still, this is an awkward time. There is to be a wedding, two in fact.”

 

“So I see. By all means, attend to your ceremonies. My concerns can wait, for now.”

 

“Very well,” Valendrian turned to Blair and Soris. “Children, treat Duncan as my honored guest. And for Maker’s sake, take your places.” The aged elf made his way towards the raised platform set aside for such occasions.

 

“Please do not let me interrupt further,” Duncan insisted. “We shall speak more later.”

 

Blair nodded and followed Valendrian, Soris not far behind.

 

“Ooh! Soris!” Valora gushed as the pair reached the top of the platform. “There you are. I was afraid you’d run off.”

 

“No, I’m here,” Soris chuckled. “With Nelaros’s blushing bride in tow.”

 

“You look radiant,” Nelaros told a lightly blushing Blair.

 

“It looks like everyone’s ready,” Soris sighed nervously.

“Good luck, Soris,” Blair nudged her cousin.

 

“You too, Blair. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.”

 

Valendrian and Mother Boann began the ceremony while Blair tried focus on not hyperventilating. When she looked up, her eyes widened. Vaughn was back, with more men this time. “Milord… this is an unexpected surprise,” Mother Boann commented warily.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, Mother, but I’m having a party and were dreadfully short of female guests,” Vaughn laughed darkly.

 

“Milord, this is a wedding!” Mother Boann protested.

 

“Ha! If you want to dress up your pets and have tea parties, that’s your business,” Vaughn sneered. “But don’t pretend this is a proper wedding. Now, we’re here for a good time, aren’t we boys?”

 

Two of Vaughn’s toadies laughed. “Just a good time with the ladies, that’s all.”

 

“Let’s take those two,” Vaughn gestured towards a pair of bridesmaids. “The one in the tight dress, and… where’s the bitch that bottled me?”“Over here, Lord Vaughn!” one of the bastards grabbed Shianni by the arm.

 

“Let me go, you stuffed-shirt son of a--” Shianni squirmed.

 

“Oh, I’ll enjoy taming her,” Vaughn chuckled. “And see the pretty bride.” The man’s eyes had found Blair.

 

“Don’t worry,” Nelaros muttered. “I won’t let them take you.”

 

“I won’t let them take Shianni,” Blair growled, shocking Nelaros. For the first time, he saw anger in his bride’s black eyes.

 

“Ah, yes… such a well-formed little thing,” Vaughn purred.

 

“You villains!” Nelaros spat.

 

“That’s quite enough. I’m sure we all want to avoid further… um, unpleasantness.”

 

“Let them go!” Blair snapped. “You have no right!” 

 

“Let me think… hmmm, no. Oh we’re going to have some fun…”

 

The last thing Blair saw before the lights went out was the back of Lord Braden’s hand.

 

* * *

 

Blair became aware of a rapidly muttering voice praying not far from her. A second, more irritable voice snapped at the first to be quiet. “Ugh,” Blair groaned as she sat up.

 

“Thank the Maker you came to,” Shianni smiled crookedly. “We were worried.”“All right…” Blair sneered. “That human dies.”

 

“Glad you’ve still got some fight in you,” Shianni chuckled.

 

“They locked us in here until that… Bastard is ‘ready for us.’” Valora hissed.

 

“We’ll kill the first human that opens the door,” Blair told them. 

 

“We’re five unarmed women,” one of Valora’s bridesmaids groaned. “What makes you think we can kill anyone? Look, we’ll… do what they want, go home and try to forget this ever happened.”

 

“She’s right,” Valora muttered. “It’ll be worse if we resist.”

 

“It’ll be worse if we don’t!” Shianni snapped.

“Someone’s coming!” the bridesmaid whimpered.

 

Blair tensed as she heard the lock on the door opening. Five armed men strode in. “Hello, wenches,” the leader greeted in an oily voice. “We’re your escort to Lord Vaughn’s little party.”

 

The praying bridesmaid stood up. “Stay away from me.”

 

With a snort, the guard swung his sword, cutting the bridesmaid across the chest. Blair snarled as the woman’s blood began to pool around her. “I suppose that’s what happens when you try teaching whores some respect,” the man turned and began giving orders to the other guards. “Now, you grab the little flower cowering in the corner. Horace and I’ll take the homely bride and the drunk. You two, bind the last one. She’s the scrapper.” With a chuckle, the Captain left with the others.

 

“Don’t worry,” one guard chuckled as he and his partner moved towards Blair. “We’ll be perfect gentlemen.”

 

“Now you heard the Captain,” the other told her firmly. “Be a good little wench or you’ll end up like your friend, there.”

 

“Try it,” Blair snapped. “See what parts you lose first.”

 

“Ha! Horace was right, she’s a scrapper!” said the first guard.

 

“Um, hello?” came a familiar voice. Soris came into the room, a pair of daggers in sheathes in his hand and a sword at his hip.

 

“Oh, look at this. A little elfling with a stolen sword.” As the pair of guards moved towards Soris, he tossed the pair of daggers between them. Blair caught and drew the blades, gripping them so the blades protruded from between her ring and middle finger.

 

“Oh, sod…” the second guard muttered as he saw murder in Blair’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Blair snarled to herself as she and Soris slipped through the palace. They came to the end of the hall just in time to see the Guard Captain cut down Nelaros just as he had the bridesmaid. “See? I told you there’d be more. Elves run in packs, like rodents.”

 

“Should we keep the knife-eared bitch alive?” one of the guards asked.

 

“She killed our boys,” the Captain sneered. “She dies.”

 

“I’m going to enjoy this…” Blair growled, spinning her daggers.

 

“Stupid wench. We’ll show you how men fight.”

 

Blair snorted and threw both daggers into the throats of the Captain’s cronies before leaping over the Captain himself. Before the Captain could turn, Blair snaked an arm around his neck, gripped his chin and jerked back harshly. The sound of vertebrae snapping was almost musical to Blair. She let the Captain’s body drop before rushing over to Soris and Nelaros.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Soris sobbed.

 

“He died to save me,” Blair knelt next to her fallen betrothed, several emotions warring in her mind as she closed his eyes. It was true that she had no desire to marry yet, but Nelaros had still come to save her. She was free… but at the cost of a good man’s life. 

 

I won’t let this be for nothing, Nelaros. I swear it. Vaughn will pay for what he’s done… She thought, taking the golden ring on the chain from around his neck.

 

After slipping the simple chain over her head, she dropped the ring under her dress.

 

“Let’s make sure it wasn’t in vain,” Soris told her, conviction entering his normally timid voice.

 

Blair nodded and the pair continued on. 

 

* * *

 

“My, my. What have we here?” Vaughn sneered as Blair and Soris entered his room. He, Braden and Jonaley had surrounded Shianni as she laid on the ground. Her dress was shredded from the waist down. Knowing this could only mean one thing, she almost didn’t hear Jonaley’s words through the hazy buzzing in her ears. “Quiet, you idiot!” Vaughn snapped at his friend. “They’re covered in enough blood to fill a tub. What do you think that means?”

 

“It means your guards are dead… and you’re next,” Blair hissed like an angry viper.

 

“All right, let’s not be too hasty here. Surely we can talk this over…”

 

“You really think you can talk your way out of this?”

 

Sobbing interrupted Vaughn. “Please,” Shianni begged. “Just… get me out of here! I want to go home!”

 

“Think for a minute,” Vaughn continued. “Kill me and you ruin more lives than just your own. By dawn, the city will run red with elven blood. Think about it. You know how this ends. Or we could talk this through now that you have my undivided attention.”

 

“How dare you threaten us?” Blair snarled.

 

“Last chance. Kill me and destroy everything you care about, or hear me out and change your life for the better.”

“But Blair, what if he’s right?” Soris muttered. “They’ll purge the Alienage again!”

 

“Some things cannot go unpunished,” Blair hissed, appalled Soris would even consider leaving Shianni and the others with this bastard.

 

“I’ll gut you myself!” Vaughn snapped, drawing his sword.

 

What happened next, Soris could barely follow. Blair, his normally sweet, even-tempered cousin had become a whirlwind of blades. She ducked under Vaughn’s wild swing to punch-stab Jonaley in the chest rapidly. Before Jonaley could even buckle, Blair had ducked another swing, this one from Braden, before slashing her dagger across the noble’s throat. When both of Vaughn’s friends fell with various bloody noises, Blair pounced on the ringleader himself, crossing her blades at his throat.

 

“Wait… please…” Vaughn begged.

 

“I’m sure Shianni asked for mercy as well.” Before Vaughn could retaliate, Blair jerked her blades, scissoring the bastard’s neck. While the motion didn’t sever Vaughn’s head, it got close.

 

“He… he’s dead,” Soris panted. “Tell me we did the right thing, Blair.”

 

“What’s important is that Shianni’s safe,” Blair told him as she climbed off Vaughn’s corpse.

 

“I… I’ll check the back room for the others. Shianni needs you,”

 

Blair nodded as her cousin turned and walked quickly to the second door on the far side of the room. Blair knelt next to Shianni, pulling the traumatized redhead into her arms. “D-don’t leave me alone…” Shianni sobbed. “Please… please, take me home…”

 

“Can you walk?” Blair asked, gently smoothing Shianni’s tousled hair.

 

“I… I think so… You killed them, didn’t you? You killed them all?”

 

“Like dogs, Cousin…”

 

“Good. Good…”

 

“Is… she going to be all right?” Valora asked from behind Blair.

 

“Would you be?” Blair shot back hollowly.

 

“Shianni’s strong,” Valora told her uncertainly. “She’ll recover.”

 

“We should go…” Soris muttered. “Soon. As in now. I’ll take the rear guard. I can’t wait to leave this place.”

 

* * *

 

Blair, supporting Shianni, alongside Soris, Valora and the one remaining bridesmaid slipped into the Alienage.

 

“You have returned,” Valendrian ran up to the group. “Has Shianni been hurt? Where is Tormey’s daughter, Nola?”

“Nola didn’t make it…” Valora cried. “She resisted and…”

 

“They killed her…” Shianni whispered.

 

“Nelaros, too,” Soris told the elder. “The guards killed him.”

 

“I see,” Valendrian sighed. “Would the rest of you ladies please tale Shianni home? She needs rest.” Valora and the bridesmaid nodded, both lending Shianni a shoulder to lean on. “Now tell me,” Valendrian turned to Blair. “What happened?”

 

“Vaughn’s dead,” Blair told him flatly, gazing at the ring around her neck.

 

“Then the garrison could already be on their way,” Duncan intoned. “You have little time.”

 

“I’m not sure what we should do,” Blair muttered.

 

“The guards are here!” a young man yelled, his voice nearing hysteria.

 

“Don’t panic,” Valendrian commanded. “Let’s see what comes of this.”

 

An elder guard, flanked by a small number of his men, strode into the Alienage a few minutes later. “I seek Valendrian, elder and administrator of the Alienage!”

 

“Here, Captain,” Valendrian motioned. “I take it you have come in response to today’s disruption?”

 

“Don’t play ignorant with me, elder. You will not prevent justice from being done. The arl’s son lies dead in ariver of blood that runs through the entire palace. I need names, and I need them now!”

 

Blair sighed and mustered her courage. “It was my doing,” she said, stepping forward.

 

“You expect me to believe one woman did all of that?” the Captain scoffed.

 

“We are not all so helpless, Captain,” Valendrian said coolly.

 

“You save many by coming forward. I don’t envy your fate, but I applaud your courage,” the Captain looked at Blair with a rare thing in his eye. Respect. Blair nodded. He seemed a good man for a human. “This elf will wait in the dungeon until the arl returns. The rest of you, back to your houses!”

 

“Captain,” Duncan intervened. “A word if you please.”

 

“What is it, Grey Warden? The situation is well under control, as you can see.”

 

“Be that as it may, I hereby invoke the Grey Warden’s Right of Conscription. I remove this woman into my custody.”

 

“You can do that?” Blair asked, astonished.

 

“Son of a tied down…” the Captain muttered. “Very well, Grey Warden; I cannot challenge your rights, but I’ll ask one thing. Get this elf out of the city. Today.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

“Now I need to get my men on the streets before this news hits. Move out!” the Captain commanded.

 

“You’re with me now,” Duncan told Blair as the guards moved out of the Alienage. “Say your goodbyes, and see me when you’re ready. We leave immediately.”

 

“You don’t have to do this. I’m safe, now,” Blair told him.

 

“I did not do this for your benefit. I needed a Grey Warden and I found one. That conscripting you saved your life is only circumstance. You did what you had to do to accomplish your mission. We need people like you. Now quickly, say your goodbyes. Your life here is over.”

 

Blair nodded, not exactly happy she had no choice but to leave. Duncan went over to the gates to wait for Blair.

 

“Well,” Valendrian sighed. “I guess Duncan got his recruit after all.”

 

“It was not by my choice,” Blair insisted.

 

“No? Either way it’s out of my hands now. If you’ll excuse me, I must tend to our people. Goodbye, young one, and Maker keep you.”

 

“Thank you,” Soris smiled as Valendrian headed towards the Vhenadahl. “You really saved my hide back there.”

 

“I did what was right,” Blair told him.

 

“As you always do. Well, I’d like to follow your example. No more daydreaming. I’m settling down. Valora’s a good woman and she has ideas on making life better for everyone here. Your father had the women take Shianni back to your place. Will you see her before you go?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Good luck, Cousin. You’ve been my hero since we were kids. It’s just official now.”

 

Blair hugged Soris with a gentle smile before following Valendrian’s path. When she arrived at her house, she found her father, Cyrion, waiting outside. “If…” he sighed. “This is what the Maker has planned for you, then I guess it’s for the best. Your mother would’ve been pleased.”

 

“You’re not?”

 

“I just wish there was another way. I dreamed of grandchildren, family gatherings, and… I’m sorry, this isn’t helping. Take care, my dear girl,” Cyrion whispered as he hugged his only daughter. “Be safe. And wise. And… well, you know… we’ll all miss you.” Blair’s vision blurred with tears as her father kissed her on the brow. As she went into the house, she heard Cyrion give a sniff, fighting tears himself.

 

“There you are,” Valora grinned when Blair came in. “Thank you. For me, for Soris, for everything.”

 

“Be good to Soris,” Blair told her.

 

“I will, I swear it,” Valora gushed. “Shianni seems to have regained herself. I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck and thank you again.”

 

Blair rounded the corner in her house to see Shianni sitting on her bed. The redhead looked up with a frail smile. “You took all the responsibility for what happened. You’re amazing, you know that?”

 

“How are you holding up?” Blair asked as she sat next to her shaken cousin.

 

“I’m… all right. As far as the others know, Vaughn just roughed me up a bit. I just don’t want them treating me like some fragile doll,” Shianni sighed, leaning against Blair’s shoulder. “I love you, Cousin. Make us proud out there.”

 

“I love you too, Shianni,” Blair wrapped an arm around Shianni’s shoulders.

 

“Maker watch over you.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you ready to go?” Duncan asked as Blair returned.“I am,” 

 

“Good. Then we leave for the Brecilian Forest immediately. Here,” Duncan handed Blair a package. “I had Tristan collect you some armor. It’s simple but it should do until we reach the King’s encampment.”

 

“Why are we going into the forest?” Blair asked.

 

“To look for the Dalish.”

 


	5. Wolves of the North

_  
Castle Cousland, Highever _   
  
“… I trust then that your men should be here soon,” said Teyrn Bryce Cousland.   
  
“They should begin arriving tonight and we can march tomorrow,” said Arl Rendon Howe. “I apologize for the delay my lord… this is entirely my fault.”   
  
“No, no,” Bryce argued. “The appearance of the darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling, doesn’t it? I only received word from the king a few days ago myself. I shall send my eldest off with my men. You and I will ride tomorrow, just like the old days.”   
  
“True, though we both had less grey in our hair and we fought Orlesians, not… monsters.”   
  
Bryce chuckled. “At least the smell will be the same.” A sound from the door drew the teyrn’s attention. His daughter Erin, stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry, pup, I didn’t see you there. Howe, you remember my daughter.”   
  
Erin was slender, yet solidly built, wearing a set of light steel chainmail. On her back were a pair of longswords, both angled to allow an easier draw. Her hair was ginger-ish red and restrained in a ponytail that fell just below her shoulders.   
  
Had one not known her, the youngest Cousland’s brilliant ice blue eyes would have unnerved them. It was now widely regarded as mere superstition but at one time those who were born with such eyes were regarded as warnings of a time of great strife in the near future. Wolf blooded, they were called.    
  
“I see she’s grown into a lovely young woman,” Howe smiled. “It’s good to see you again, my dear.”   
  
“And you, Arl Howe,” Erin nodded.   
  
“My son Thomas asked after you. Perhaps I should bring him along next time,”   
  
“To what end?” Erin asked a mite sharply.   
  
“Ha! ‘To what end?’ she says!” Howe crowed. “So glib too. She’s just like her mother when she talks like that!”   
  
“You see what I contend with, Howe?” Bryce asked with a proud if slightly exasperated chuckle. “You can’t tell my fierce girl anything these days, Maker bless her heart.”   
  
“Hm, no doubt because you’ve trained her as a warrior.”   
  
“At any rate, pup, I called you here for a reason,” Bryce told his child. “I am leaving you in charge of the castle while Fergus and I are away.”   
  
Erin felt a pang of disappointment. “I will do my best, Father,” she said.   
  
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Bryce praised with a satisfied smile. He knew his daughter was worried her skills were being slighted and she wanted to see her twin, yet she didn’t argue. “Only a token force is remaining and you must keep peace in the region. You know what they say about the mice while the cat is away, yes?”    
  
Erin nodded with a smile.   
  
“My lord!” came a voice from the main doors. A guard strode in quickly. “A Grey Warden has arrived and requests an audience with you!”   
  
Bryce frowned. Ever since Duncan had shown up a number of months back and recruited his second son, he hadn’t been expecting another visit. “Is it Duncan again?”   
  
“No my lord,” said the guard with a smile.   
  
Bryce’s eyes widened. “Is it…?” the Guard nodded. “Well, show him in man!”   
  
“Right away, my lord,” the man turned and trotted back to the doors, throwing them open. A moment later, a second man entered, his heavy plate armor shining in the late afternoon light. He was flanked by a pair of dwarves, one wearing a set of studded-leather armor with a pair of daggers at his waist, the other in a Dwarven set of heavy chain, an ax in a scabbard on her right hip and a round targe across her back.    
  
Bryce smiled when I spotted the man in the middle. He approached and bowed, the two dwarves mimicking him. When the red haired man looked up again, it was with the same smile Bryce wore. “Hello, Father.”   
  
Before Bryce could speak, his daughter bolted forward and hugged her twin tightly. “Conrí, you’re back!”   
  
“It’s good to see you, too, sister,” Conrí laughed happily, embracing his sibling.   
  
Conrí was built just like his father, tall yet stocky, his broad shoulders covered by a set of fine steel heavy plate. The claymore across his back was made of the same material and bore the emblem of Highever on the pommel.   
  
“Pup, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Bryce told him, approaching his son.   
  
“I decided to stop in on my way to Ostagar, and Duncan told he to keep an eye out for more possible recruits,” Conrí told him as he released his sister.   
  
“You’re not here for…?” Bryce looked wearily at Erin.   
  
“No, of course not. Whether Duncan was leaning towards her or not, I intend to make him keep his promise. I will be the only Cousland drafted into the Wardens. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about testing Ser Gilmore”   
  
Bryce’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank the Maker…”   
  
“Oh! I’ve been rude,” Conrí turned towards the pair of dwarves. “Father, this is Serena Aeducan and Garik Brosca, both late of Orzammar. My newest recruits.” The dwarves bowed respectfully, Garik perhaps a mite slower, not used to such formalities.   
  
“Recruiting already, son?” Bryce asked. “You joined the Warden’s barely six months ago.”   
  
“Much has happened in the south,” Conrí told his father. “I have been promoted to a Warden Lieutenant during the skirmishes at Ostagar.”   
  
“I knew you would do me proud, Pup. Though you’re hardly a pup anymore,” Bryce added with a slightly sad chuckle.   
  
Conrí smiled before turning his attention to the Arl Howe. “Lord Howe, it is good to see you again.”   
  
“And you as well, my lad,” Howe grinned. “A bona fide Grey Warden, eh? Well done.”   
  
Conrí nodded with a humble smile. “How long are you and your Wardens staying, Conrí?” Bryce asked.   
  
“Just for the night, I expect. I’m ahead of schedule and I’ve already sent the other Wardens south to meet with the king. I was hoping for a few rooms in the guest quarters.”   
  
“Nonsense,” said Bryce firmly. “Your room is just as you left it. I will have the maids set up a few rooms for your recruits.”   
  
“Thank you, Father,” Conrí bowed slightly.   
  
“Come my son, we have much to catch up on and you probably have better word than I as to what is happening down south. In the mean time, Erin, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me.”   
  
“But…” Erin wanted to spend more time with her twin.   
  
“I’ll be here at least until Father leaves tomorrow,” Conrí promised. “We will speak more tonight.”   
  
Erin nodded, smiling warmly at him. “Where is Fergus?” she asked of her father.   
  
“Upstairs in his chambers, no doubt. Spending some last moments with his wife and my grandson,” said Bryce with a warm smile. “Be a good lass and do as I’ve asked. We shall speak more soon.”   
  
Understanding the clear dismissal, Erin bowed once more before exiting the hall. She made her way, lost in thought, towards the family quarters. She had nearly reached the library, when a familiar voice caught her attention.    
  
“There you are,” said Ser Gilmore as he strode towards the young lady.    
  
Ser Gilmore was a few years the twins’ elder and had trained alongside the pair during their early teen years. His slightly ragged reddish-blonde hair fell just above his shoulders and his face was freshly shaven.    
  
“Your mother told me the Teyrn had summoned you, so I didn’t want to interrupt.”   
  
“Good thing, too,” said Erin. “Considering Father’s company.”   
  
“Yes, I saw the arl and his men arrive,” said Ser Gilmore before getting to the meat of the matter. “I fear your brother’s hound has the kitchen in uproar once again. Nan is threatening to leave.”   
  
“Nan’s just blowing off steam,” Erin assured him. “She’s always been like that.”   
  
“Your mother disagrees,” Ser Gilmore chuckled. “She insists you collect the dog and quickly. You know these mabari hounds. He’ll listen only to his master or perhaps his master’s sister in your case; anyone else risks having an arm bitten off.”   
  
“He knows better than to hurt anyone,” Erin said firmly.   
  
“I’m not willing to test that. You and your brother are quite lucky to have your own mabari war hound, you know. ‘Smart enough not to talk,’ as my father used to say,” Ser Gilmore’s tone again became amused. “Of course, that means he’s easily bored. Nan swears he confounds her just to amuse himself. At any rate, your mother would have me accompany you until the matter is settled. “   
  
“Father sent me to find Fergus, first,” said Erin.   
  
“The teyrna was very specific,” Ser Gilmore told her. “‘Unless the castle is under attack, you collect that dog before doing anything else.’ Her words, not mine.”   
  
Erin sighed. “Very well…”   
  
“Before we go my lady,” Gilmore said a mite nervously. “Might I beg a question?” Erin nodded. “Is it true there’s a Grey Warden in the castle?”   
  
“It’s true,” Erin told him with a warm smile. “It’s Conrí.”   
  
“Truly? Then… is it also true this he was asking after me?”   
  
Erin nodded again. “He intends to test you for recruitment.”   
  
“Maker’s breath, are you certain?!” Gilmore said, excitement rolling off him. “Can you imagine it? Me, a Grey Warden?! It’d be everything I’ve dreamed of!” Gilmore began to settle as he noticed the highly amused smirk on Erin’s face. “Of course, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Pardon my outburst.”   
  
Erin chuckled and led the way toward the kitchen. It was hard to miss the excitement, with muffled barks and yelling coming from the door. An elderly woman was standing near the larder door, shouting at a pair of elven servants. This was Nan, the castle’s cook and the twins’ former nanny.    
  
“Get that bloody beast out of the larder!” Nan snapped.   
  
“But mistress, it won’t let us near!” Cath protested.   
  
“If I can’t get into that larder, I’ll skin both you useless elves, I swear it.”   
  
“Er. Calm down, good woman,” said Ser Gilmore. “We’re here to help.”   
  
“You!” Nan barked at Gilmore before her ire turned to Erin. “And you! That bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder. That beast should be put down!”   
  
“Maybe you should lock your larder up tighter...” Erin answered with a grin she knew would infuriate Nan.    
  
She wasn’t disappointed.   
  
Nan swelled up angrily like a puff adder of the marshes as Erin giggled quietly. “If I locked my larder up any tighter, we couldn’t get in!”    
  
“Oh, dear…” The elven girl put a hand on Nan’s shoulder and, flinching as she did so, as though frightened the old woman’s fury was about to turn on her, muttered “Mistress, please… calm down”   
  
“That’s it!” Nan barked, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “I’ll quit! Inform the teyrna! I’ll go and cook at some nice estate in the Bannorn!”    
  
Fortunately, Ser Gilmore took charge of the situation, speaking in a placating tone “Nan, calm down. We’ll get the dog.”    
  
Nan gave a snort and gestured to the larder door. “Just get him gone! I’ve enough to deal with feeding a castle full of hungry soldiers!”   
  
Waving the elves back, Nan stepped aside. Erin and Ser Gilmore stepped forward. Erin reached the door first, twisted the knob, and the two warriors stepped inside, closing the door behind them.   
  
The first thing Erin noticed was the mess. Plates and glasses lay smashed and shattered on the floor. Bottles of wine older than her lay broken, their priceless contents seeping into the stone floor. Blocks of cheese, bread and other foods lay on the floor with large paw prints stomped into them. And in the middle of this chaos, sniffing around as if he was looking for something, was her brother’s pet mabari war hound, Koun, his light brown fur streaked with spilt wine and milk. By the Maker, how does he do it!  As soon as the dog saw her, Koun immediately began barking in an insistent fashion, running back and forth from Erin’s feet to a cluster of sacks in a corner of the larder. Erin knew a cue when she saw it.   
  
“What is it, boy? Are you trying to tell me something?” The dog’s barks only grew more insistent.   
  
“It does seem like he’s trying to tell you something,” Gilmore conceded. Suddenly, there was a scurrying sound from behind the sacks, followed by a cacophony of angry hisses. “Wait, what was that?”   
  
From behind the sacks, a half dozen large brown shapes emerged, hissing angrily at the disturbance. More began to emerge from cracks and holes in the wall. Drawing a long bladed dagger-her swords was far too cumbersome in the confined space- Erin, Gilmore and Koun went to work with a vengeance as the large rats went on the attack, red eyes flashing and yellowed, knife-like incisors bared.   
  
Within seconds, the fur had literally begun to fly. Erin skewered one rat with her blade and stamped on another, breaking its back. A third leapt into the air, its jaws snapping at her hand, but she seized it in midair and snapped its neck, tossing its furry corpse aside. Gilmore impaled two simultaneously with his sword, while Koun clawed another and shook one more to death in his jaws. A dozen rats attacked the trio, and in as many heartbeats, the vile rodents were dead, at the cost of only a few minor bites and scratches to the victors.    
  
“Your hound must have chased them into the larder through their holes. I guess he wasn’t raiding the larder after all,” Ser Gilmore mused.    
  
Koun gave a bark that sounded almost resentful at the accusation. The old tales said mabaris were smart enough to understand the conversations of their masters, so it wouldn’t surprise Erin if the dog was fully aware what they were accusing him off.   
  
“Those were some very large rats...” Erin mused.    
  
Ser Gilmore added “Those were rats from the Korcari Wilds; best not to tell Nan. She’s upset enough as it is! But seeing as you’ve got your hound under control, I’ll be off; I’m to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl’s men”.    
  
With that, Ser Gilmore sheathed his blade, stepped out of the larder and closed the door behind him.   
  
Erin and Koun stepped out of the larder after cleaning themselves up a bit to find Nan and her two elven assistants staring at her uncertainly; doubtlessly they’d heard the noise, the barks and the sound of fighting, but hadn’t known what to make of it. Nan recovered first, pointing an accusing finger at the dog, mistaking the rat blood dripping from his teeth as meat juices.    
  
“There he is, as brazen as you please, licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!”   
  
“Hardly, he was defending your larder from rats. Big ones,” Erin replied in defense of her furred friend, affectionately scratching his ear.   


Cath gave a yelp of fright. “Rats?! Not the large grey ones!”   
  
Her male counterpart also shook vigorously with fear. “They’ll rip you to shreds, they will!”    
  
Nan gave an exasperated sigh at her helpers’ cowardice. “See! Now you’ve gone and scared the servants!” Another sigh escaped her lips and she put a hand to her brow. “I expect those filthy things are dead?”   
  
Erin patted Koun on the head. “Conrí’s brave, faithful war hound made sure it’s safe”.    
  
Nan gave a snort and replied “I bet that dog led those things in there to begin with!” At this, Koun loped over to Nan and gave her a pitiful whine, nuzzling against her leg and fixing her with his large, wide eyes. Nan scowled “Don’t even start with the sad eyes! I’m immune to your so-called ‘charms’!”    
  
But Koun’s whines and playful manipulation paid off as Erin saw Nan’s severe expression thaw and a thin smile appear, much like the ones she’d seen as a child, she’d been both annoyed and yet secretly amused by Conrí’s antics as a little boy. With a reluctant laugh, she turned away and tossed a lump of pork crackling to the dog.   
  
“There, and don’t say Nan never gives you anything. Bloody dog…” Koun gave a happy bark as he chewed on the meat.   
  
Nan tossed Erin an apple as well by way of thanks as well.    
  
“Thank you, my lady. Now we can get back to work,” with that, she turned back to the elves and she was back to her old self; sharp and harsh. “That’s right, you two. Quit standing about! Adney, sweep that hearth! And Cath, do you think you can serve that to the teyrn with dirt from the floor all over it!”   
  
As Erin departed, she heard Adney mutter “Miserable old bat!”   
  
“Old bat, am I!” she heard Nan snap, and the youngest Cousland quickened her pace before she could hear the rest of Nan’s terse reply.   
  


* * *

  
“And my dear Bryce brought this back from Orlais last year,” Teyrna Eleanor Cousland told her long time friend Lady Landra, gesturing to the silk gown she wore. “The marquis who gave it to him was drunk, I understand, and mistook Bryce for the king!”    
  
The pair shared a laugh as Erin and Koun approached. “Ah, and here is my lovely daughter. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of your brother’s that the situation in the kitchen is handled?”   
  
“Nan’s head exploded and Koun ate the kitchen staff,” Erin chuckled.    
  
“Well, at least one of us will have had a decent dinner,” Eleanor droned, her eyes finding Koun. The mabari barked happily. “Perhaps that hound left something I can feed my guests. Darling, you remember Lady Landra? Bann Loren’s wife?”   
  
“I think we last met at your mother’s spring salon,” Landra smiled.   
  
“Of course. It is good to see you again, my lady,” Erin bowed slightly.   
  
“You’re too kind, dear girl. Didn’t I spend half the salon trying to convince you to marry my son?” Landra chuckled.    
  
She had indeed had a few too many.   
  
“And you made a very poor case for it too,” droned a young man standing near the pair of elder women.   
  
“You remember my son, Dairren. He’s… not married yet, either.”   
  
“Don’t listen to her,” Dairren told Erin dryly. “It is good to see you again, my lady.”   
  
“You as well,” Erin smiled politely.   
  
“And this is my lady in waiting, Iona,” Landra motioned to a blond elvish girl to her left. “Do say something, dear.”   
  
“It is an honor to meet you, my lady,” Iona greeted. “You are as pretty as the rumors describe.”   
  
“She says this after seeing you whacking stuffed men in the courtyard, and sweating like a mule,” Eleanor snickered.   
  
“Your daughter’s skill with a blade is most impressive,” Dairren commended.   
  
“I was quite the battle maiden myself, once upon a time,” Eleanor allowed. “But I believe it was the softer arts that won me a husband.”   
  
“I can handle my own affairs, thank you,” Erin snipped.   
  
“All evidence to the contrary,” Eleanor responded.   
  
One of the few points of friction between mother and daughter was Erin’s love life. She had bluntly refused to marry any of the suitors her parents had brought to her. They all shared one thing in common that Erin found extremely unattractive.   
  
They were male.   
  
Landra smiled and then said to Eleanor. “I think I shall retire for now, my dear. Dairren, I will see you and Iona at supper.”    
  
Her son nodded and motioned to the elf maid. “I think we shall retire to the study for now.”   
  
“Good evening, your Ladyship.”   
  
“You should say goodbye to Fergus while you have the chance,” Eleanor told her daughter when Landra was out of sight.   
  
“Do you know where Fergus might be?”   
  
“If he’s not out with his men, probably upstairs with Oriana,” Eleanor smiled fondly.   
  
Erin sighed. “Why can’t I go with Father and Fergus?”   
  
“I know it’s difficult to stay in the castle and watch others ride off, but we must see to our duties first. You understand that, don’t you?”   
  
“What if they fall without me?”   
  
“It’s in the Maker’s hands now, and we must cope the best we can.”   
  
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Erin muttered.   
  
“As do I. Your father and brothers are marching off to fight Maker-knows-what. All the assurances in the world don’t comfort me. But it wouldn’t help for us to take up arms and follow. Fergus, Conrí and your father have their duty and we have ours.”   
  
“Are you staying in the castle?” Erin asked, eager to change the topic.   
  
“For a few days. Then I’ll travel with Lady Landra to her estate and keep her company for a time. Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority.”   
  
Erin was tempted to beg her to stay, but she knew it wouldn’t work and would only serve to irritate her mother.    
  
“As you wish,” she said finally.   
  
Eleanor smiled. “Good. I was worried you might you might be nervous about running the castle alone. I needn’t have been concerned.”   
  
“Did you hear about the Grey Wardens that arrived a bit ago?”   
  
“Yes, I heard the men mention it. You haven’t got it into your head that you want to be recruited?”   
  
“Even if I had, the Warden would refuse to take me.”   
  
“Why is that?” Eleanor frowned, clearly thinking the Warden’s would be privileged to have her fierce girl.   
  
“Well, he has a… personal interest in keeping me here,”   
  
Eleanor’s eye widened. “Is he…?” Erin nodded. “Did he say why?”   
  
“He’s ahead of schedule and decided to stop here on the way from Orzammar. And he’s adamant about forcing Duncan to keep his promise. He’s talking with Father and Arl Howe in the main hall. I should get going, since Father wants me to find Fergus.”   
  
Eleanor surprised her daughter by throwing her arms around Erin’s armored shoulders. “Thank you. I love you, my darling girl. You know that, don’t you?”   
  
Erin, caught off guard could only mumble. “I’m hardly a girl any longer.”   
  
Eleanor pulled back slightly, cupping Erin’s cheek in her hand. “Indeed. I turned around and here you are. A fine woman in your own right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Go do what you must then. I will see you soon.” The Teyrna walked off, no doubt heading to see her wayward son.   
  
Elissa, her curiosity perked by the conversation before, made her way to the library. Speaking briefly with Dairren, she was assured he would write her about the goings on in the south, before she made her way to her true destination.    
  
“This is a wonderful dog” Iona mused “He seems very noble and intelligent” eliciting a happy bark from the mabari. “Is there something you wished of me, my lady?”   
  
“You’re very pretty, if I may say so,” Erin told her.   
  
Iona blushed and smiled softly. “My lady is very kind. Thank you.”    
  
Erin pressed on, looking thoughtfully at her “I must admit, I haven’t seen many elven ladies in waiting”   
  
Iona nodded. “Lady Landra has been very good to me; I am lucky.” She looked around conspiratorially and continued, in a much softer voice. “If I may… I see you have no ladies-in-waiting. Is this usual for a noblewoman of your rank?” she seemed a mite worried she was over stepping her bounds.   
  
Erin dropped her voice to the pitch of hers, looked over her shoulder to ensure Dairren wasn’t listening and whispered, with a sly smile on her lips. “If I found a maid like you, I might consider it.”    
  
Iona only reddened further. “You are very kind,” she demurely said in answer. “I am no one special. You make me blush.”   
  
“In all honesty,” Erin continued, speaking truthfully this time. “I’ve never really desired one. I’m not much for be fussed over.”    
  
Iona nodded understandingly at this. “That is a very Ferelden attitude I think, to be so self-sufficient.”   
  
“How did you come to know Lady Landra?”   
  
“My family has been in service for many years,” Iona explained. “Lady Landra has elevated my place as a reward for our loyalty.” At this, a worried edge entered her voice and her eyes seemed uncertain. “I only hope this position will pass to my daughter”   
  
“You have a daughter?” Erin asked, intrigued.    
  
Iona looked a little chagrined and murmured “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have mentioned her,” to the floor.    
  
Erin lifted her chin up and gave her a soft smile. “It’s quite alright” she assured her. “Any mother has a right to be proud of her children...I know mine is.”   
  
Encouraged by this, Iona spoke up “Her name is Amethyne. Her father...died of a wasting sickness two years ago.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Erin said. “You speak of your daughter fondly.”   
  
“Amethyne is my life. You will understand when you have children. This is why your mother keeps you from the coming battle,” an edge in her voice telling Erin just how much she valued her daughter, and how well she thought of her mother for her own such judgment.    
  
Seeking to get away from such dark thoughts, Erin gave Iona a wry grin and slyly whispered “I bet she has your beautiful eyes...”   
  
Iona giggled a little at this. “She...does. People say she looks a great deal like me. I am the only one to see her father in her...”   
  
“But surely, every parent wishes their children to do well. You don’t hope for more for your daughter?” Erin enquired, curious at the thought.   
  
“I...have risen very high for my people. I would not tempt fate by wishing more,” Iona answered, an uncertain look in her eyes.    
  
Erin nodded at this logic and concluded, “It sounds like Lady Landra has been good to you.”    
  
Iona nodded in agreement. “Lady Landra is good to her elven servants. That is not true in many households, but I hear it is true in yours. It speaks well of your father to show such compassion.”   
  
Erin nodded “Many nobles challenge my father’s view of equality for the elves. I respect him for it; moments in my life have proven the valuable contributions elves have made, and will make, to Thedas. If it were up to me, I’d tear down the walls of every Alienage, scrap all those outrageous laws that restrict your people and make using the term ‘knife-ears’ a punishable offence. Your people have contributed so much to this kingdom; it is shameful the way they are treated. I would see it changed!”    
  
As she finished, she saw Iona’s sapphire eyes almost overflowing with respect for her, and what was more, every word she had sent to the girl, she meant it.   
  
Feeling she’d given away a good deal of herself, she turned back to the girl and smiled. “Tell me about yourself, please.” Iona looked quite surprised that the daughter of so important a human lady would show such great interest in her, but she recovered and said. “I am an open book, my lady. What would you like to know?”   
  
“Where were you born?”   
  
“Lady Landra’s mansion is not half as large as your castle, so my family lives in the Alienage.”    
  
Now she understood why her respect had emerged: she was from an Alienage, she knew precisely what hardships her people endured.    
  
“Do you… enjoy… living there?” she asked, immediately regretting asking a stupid question.    
  
Her unease must have shown on her face, because Iona giggled a little and answered calmly.    
  
“There, we do not stand out so much. In an Alienage, my daughter learns what it is to be elven...as much as possible. So much of our history has been lost...” she finished regretfully, and Erin empathized with her.    
  
How terrible it must be, to lose everything that makes your people who they are. They deserve so much better than that…she thought.   
  
Trying not to sully their conversation with anger, she casually asked “Is there anyone special back home?”    
  
The elf girl looked surprised at this, but shook her head. “No longer. I have no time for such things”   
  
“Surely you jest” Erin chuckled “Someone as beautiful as you?”    
  
Iona’s eyes went wide as she took in the compliment but she giggled and blushed all the same. “You flatter me, my lady. I am not so pretty that suitors are lining up if that’s what you mean.”    
  
Erin laughed and replied “I find that hard to believe, but perhaps you could tell me more later, as I think we should get to know each other better, Lady Iona”   
  
“Aren’t we doing just that?” Iona enquired, a little uncertain. “What more did you have in mind?”    
  
Erin approached the elf maid, bent down to her ear and whispered “Something more… intimate, later on, in my room?”    
  
Iona’s eyes widened, but a small smile crinkled the edge of her lips. “I… I see. I think I might like that.”    
  
This time, Iona came over to Erin, running a hand along her cheek as she pressed her lips to Erin right ear and whispered, “If I come to your door when everyone is asleep… would that be agreeable, my lady?”   
  
“Please...call me Erin” she replied in answer.    
  
The elf’s eyes brightened and her smile spanned from ear to ear almost.    
  
She kissed her on the right cheek and whispered “Until tonight, then.”   
  


* * *

  
“Is there really going to be a war, papa? Will you bring me back a sward?” Erin recognized the speaker as her young nephew, Oren.    
  
As Erin stepped inside, she saw his eldest brother Fergus, clad in a heavy suit of chainmail with a sword sheathed on his back, crouch down beside his son and ruffle Oren’s hair. Fergus had a good five years on the twins and more than a head in height on Conrí. Unlike Conrí, who’d inherited his father’s broad shoulders and fairly stocky frame, Fergus was more like their mother; tall and thin, though like his father, Fergus’s hair was dark brown and cut short. His eyes were those of his father as well.    
  
He laughed as he ruffled his son’s black hair, smiling “That’s ‘sword’, Oren. And I’ll get you the mightiest one I can find. I promise I’ll be back before you know it. “   
  
“I wish victory was indeed so certain. My heart is… disquiet” Oriana, Fergus’s young wife chipped in fearfully.    
  
She was slightly younger than Fergus, but Erin knew full well she loved him with all her heart. Her slightly accented voice betrayed her as being from Antiva, that mysterious desert nation of merchants and assassins. She was pretty, with mousy brown hair, bright green eyes, with a silver tongue to match Erin’s own and a friendly disposition. Erin had, at first been a bit put out by this new arrival years before, but now regarded her fully as a member of the family   
  
But in treating her like a sister, both Erin and Conrí took every opportunity to tease them about it. And today will be no exception! Erin gleefully thought as she stepped inside. Fergus put a hand on his wife’s arm.    
  
“Now, don’t frighten the boy, love. I speak the truth,” As the floorboards creaked, Fergus turned round and saw her. Cracking a smile, he turned back to his family and said “And here’s my little sister to see me off! Now dry your eyes, love, and wish me well!”   
  
“Let me know when you two are finished!” Erin snarked.   
  
Fergus laughed at this, and Oriana cracked a small smile. “HA! When there’s man in your life, you’ll understand”   
  
Erin gave a snort. “Men are overrated.”    
  
Fergus chuckled at this. “One day you’ll meet someone who can handle you. Mark my words.”   
  
“You will be missed, Brother.”   
  
“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure I’ll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of you up here, warm and safe,” Fergus smiled.   
  
“I am positively thrilled that you will be so miserable, my husband,” Oriana smirked impishly.   
  
“I wish I could come with you.” Erin sighed.    
  
“As do I.” Fergus agreed. “It’s going to be tiring, killing all these darkspawn myself.”    
  
“In Antiva, a woman fighting in battle would be… unthinkable,” Oriana pointed out.   
  
“Is that so?” Fergus flirted. “I always heard Antivan woman were quite dangerous.”   
  
“With kindness and poison only, my husband.”   
  
“This from the woman who serves me my tea!” Fergus chuckled.   
  
“Do you really think the war will be over so soon?” Erin asked.   
  
Fergus nodded “Word from the south is the battle has gone well so far. There’s no real evidence this is a true Blight; just a large raid.”   
  
“Could that be true?” Oriana asked, her voice worried.   
  
“I’ll see for myself soon enough. Pray for me, love, and I’ll be back in a month or two,” Fergus answered, then cupped his wife’s face in his hands and their lips met.    
  
Deciding to once again get a drop on her family, Erin grinned mischievously. “Do you know there’s a Grey Warden in the castle?”   
  
“Really!” Oren squeaked, his eyes lighting up with excitement, much as Erin’s had when she was her nephew’s age and the subject of the Order had come up. “Was he riding a griffon?”    
  
“Hush, Oren” his mother chided him “Griffons only exist in stories now.”    
  
Fergus smiled at his son and then turned back to his sister. “I’d heard that. Did he say why he’d come?”   
  
“He intends to test Ser Gilmore.”   
  
“Good for him! I hope he makes it!” her brother remarked. “Still, if I was a Grey Warden, I’d have my eye on you...not that Father would allow it! Or our dear brother for that matter.”   
  
“Well, Conrí won’t have to worry about a Warden kidnapping me in the night. Since he’s the one here,”   
  
Fergus sputtered. “He’s back? When did he get here?”   
  
“Not too long ago. He’s talking with Father and Howe, and no doubt mother by now. Oh, that reminds me. Father sent me with a message; he wants you to take the troops to Ostagar ahead of him.”   
  
Fergus sighed. “So the arl’s men are delayed! You’d think they were all walking backwards!”    
  
Fergus sighed again in exasperation, then kissed Oriana passionately again, bent down to Oren and kissed his son on the brow and then stood up and hugged Erin. “Well, I’d better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time!”   
  
“I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave” an instantly recognizable baritone spoke from behind them.    
  
Erin looked up and saw his mother and father standing at the door of Fergus’s room. Eleanor and Bryce stepped into the room and walked over to their son, daughter, daughter-in-law and grandson.    
  
Eleanor approached Fergus with open arms and pulled him into a close hug. “Be well, my son” she murmured, stroking her eldest child’s hair, “I will pray for your safety every day you are gone.”   
  
“You could have delivered your message yourself” Erin muttered a little petulantly, somewhat annoyed at having been reduced to little more than an errand girl.    
  
Bryce laughed and replied “And miss having all my children in one place before I leave? Not likely.”    
  
“All?” Oriana asked, before spying her brother in law standing in the doorway, a warm smile on his face. “Conrí?”   
  
Before anyone could move towards their wayward kin, a tan blur blazed past and bowled Conrí over.    
  
“Ugh… good to see you too, Koun…” he groaned before having his face nearly licked off by his faithful mabari. After a long moment of being licked and listening to his family’s mirth, Conrí finally pushed Koun’s muzzle away from his face. “Yeah, I’m bringing you with this time… your breath alone could kill a horde of darkspawn.”   
  
“So, you finally decide to drag your carcass back here, eh?” Fergus chuckled.   
  
“You don’t write,” Erin laughingly scolded.   
  
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Fergus went on.   
  
“The Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands and fathers, and bring them back safely to us,” Oriana prayed as Conrí peeled himself from the stone floor.    
  
It was a special, intense moment of peace and contemplation of family...   
  
Which Fergus spoiled so magnificently by glibly joking in mock prayer, “And bring us some wenches and ale while you’re at it… for the men, of course!” he quickly added at the sight of his wife’s scandalized expression.    
  
“Fergus!” she squawked, looking again like an angry mother hen. “You would say this in front of your mother!” Oriana snapped, gesturing at her mother-in-law’s disapproving stare.   
  
The serious moment was interrupted perfectly by Oren, who confusedly asked “What’s a wench? Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well!”    
  
Erin had to put a hand over her mouth to stop himself bursting out laughing at his nephew’s innocent, hilarious comment, but all the family could see her shoulders shaking.    
  
“A wench, Oren” Bryce answered “is a woman who pours the ale in a tavern. Or a woman who drinks a lot of ale...!” he added in a quiet undertone, though not quite enough to be unheard by his wife.    
  
“Bryce!” Eleanor laughingly scolded. “Maker’s Breath, it’s like living with a pack of small boys! Thankfully, I have a daughter.”   
  
Fergus finished laughing his head off and kissed his mother on the forehead. “I’ll miss you, mother dear!” he said, turning to face his younger sister “You’ll take good care of her while I’m away?”   
  
“Mother can take care of herself,” Erin answered, shrugging her shoulders. “Always has.”    
  
Fergus nodded and chuckled “It’s true! They should be sending her, not me! She’d scold those darkspawn back into the Deep Roads!” he joked, wincing as his mother slapped him in the ribs.    
  
“Well, I’m glad you think this is funny!”   
  
The conversation turned away as Conrí, Eleanor, Oriana, Fergus and Bryce began to talk among themselves. Conrí leaned against the wall, just enjoying the finally being home, as brief as it would be.    
  
Suddenly, Erin felt a hand tugging at her belt. She looked down and saw Oren looking up at her with an impish grin. “Mama says you’re going to be watching over us while Papa is gone. Is that true, auntie?”   
  
Erin gave an exasperated sigh. “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”    
  
Oren giggled happily and said “But you’re my auntie! What else could I call you, silly!”    
  
Oriana looked up and smiled understandingly. “Your aunt no doubt thinks it makes her sound too old, Oren.”    
  
“But she is old!” Oren protested. “But not as old as you, Mama!”    
  
“This is your influence, Fergus,” Oriana told her husband archly.   
  
“What?” Fergus protested. “I didn’t say anything.”   
  
“Will you teach me to use a sword, uncle?” Oren asked, turning to Conrí. “Then I can fight evil too!” he waved his arm as though he were cutting a path through a horde of demons with a sword. “Take that, dire bunny! All darkspawn, fear my Sword of Truthiness!”   
  
“You bet!” Conrí chuckled. “Let’s go!”   
  
Oriana darted forward and seized Conrí by his braid as he turned to leave. “Fergus, there are times your family causes me great pain,” she chuckled in exasperation. Conrí sighed, his neck craned back by his sister-in-law’s grip, and raised his hands in defeat.   
  
“Now, now. Mind your mother, Oren,” Fergus laughed.    
  
Oren huffed in frustration “I never get to do anything!”    
  
Erin laughed at her nephew’s expense, and then turned to see her father staring at her. “You’ll want to get an early night, pup. You’ve much to do tomorrow,” Bryce stated.    
  
Fergus chuckled at this “Getting sent to bed early, are we?”   
  
Erin gave a wolfish grin. “I don’t mind” she said as she walked up to her brother and embraced him. “I have someone waiting for me!” she whispered in his ear.    
  
Fergus choked with laughter at this. “What! You saucy minx!” he grinned, earning another elbow in the ribs from Oriana.    
  
“Fergus, really!” she pleaded, nodding at Oren; fortunately, the boy was too busy playing tug-of-war with Koun to notice his elders.   
  
“It’s the elven lass that arrived with Lady Landra, isn’t it!” Fergus interrogated. “You’ve always had a soft spot for them, so don’t you tell me it isn’t!” Fergus laughed again.    
  
“You and Conrí enjoy the long march south...” Erin archly replied “in the cold!”    
  
Fergus winced at this “A warm bed doesn’t sound too bad now, come to think of it!.” He chuckled and then sighed, and the two siblings embraced in a crushing bear hug. “At any rate, I’ll miss you, sister. Take care of everyone, and be here when I get back!”   
  
Her father was looking at his younger son with great scrutiny. Erin went over to Bryce and looked her father in the eye.    
  
“You should be on your way, pup; long day tomorrow!” her father remarked.    
  
For the first time, Erin let a tinge of unease creep into her voice. “I must speak with you, father. Are you sure you, Conrí and Fergus will be alright?”   
  
“Your brothers and I go into battle, not an afternoon tea!” her father sighed. “Who knows what will happen to us? I will say this, however,” Erin could hear the pride in his voice. “You’re my darling, I love you, and I trust you completely to carry on the Cousland name, if the worst should happen.”    
  
Erin felt tears well up in her eyes, that her father trusted her so deeply, so completely. “But don’t worry about me, dear girl. You’ll have plenty to keep you occupied while I’m gone.”   
  
Wiping her eyes dry, Erin took a serious tone. “Is it truly wise to send all our forces south?”    
  
Bryce nodded “When the king demands it. In fact, not sending our forces south would be a distinctly bad idea. Don’t worry, pup,” Bryce added placating at his daughter’s unease. “You shouldn’t see many problems. But I want you to prepare the men...just in case.”   
  
“In case of what?” Erin had to ask.    
  
Bryce gave a grimace at the question “You’ve read the stories, pup. Legends of the Blights tell of… horrible things. If we can’t defeat these darkspawn, you must prepare for the worst.”    
  
Erin nodded, making a mental note to get up early in the next few days and spend some serious time on the practice field. “But come, let us not speak of such worrisome things. We shall assume that all will go well.”   
  
Erin nodded. “I’ll do my best, Father.   
  
“I know that you’ll do me proud. You’ve grown into a sensible woman, that much is clear.”   
  


* * *

  
Conrí was woken late that night, his ears picking up the sounds of Koun barking angrily at the door. He climbed out of his bed and grabbed his Greatsword before creeping over to the door. When he heard a shuffling outside, he tensed, just as the door was kicked in. His hand flew up, just catching an arrow that was inches from his face. Two men stood in the hall, one with a bow, the other a sword and shield.    
  
With a growl, he snapped the arrow and drew his Greatsword as he marched slowly from his room.   


“Where is the Teyrn?!” one of the invaders snapped. “Tell us!”   
  
Conrí’s only answer was to cleave one of the speaker’s compatriots in two with a single swing, before pivoting and lopping the head off another. One of the bastards managed to get behind Conrí but before he could strike, the man froze and a gurgle spilled from his mouth. Conrí quickly saw why; two feet of steel blade was protruding from his chest. Conrí’s savior pulled the sword from the invader, revealing herself as Erin.    
  
“You alright, dear brother?”   
  
“I’m fine. Come, let’s clear these bastards from our home.”   
  
“Agreed,” Erin grinned bloodily, brandishing her longswords.   
  
“Koun, kill!” Conrí barked.    
  
The mabari snarled and charged one of the three remaining men. His target went down with a scream as Koun tore at him. Before the man’s friends could assist, the twins were upon them. Conrí shoved most of his blade through the archer’s chest as Erin slashed the other’s chest three times, one blade right after the other.   
  
“Conrí! Erin!” Eleanor came running out of her room, wearing both a set of studded leather armor and a longbow. “I heard the fighting outside and I feared the worst! Are either of you hurt?”   
  
“I was just about to ask you that,” Conrí told her.   
  
“They never got through the door, thanks to you two. A scream woke me up. There were men in the hall, so I bared the door. Did you see their shields? Those are Howe’s men! Why would they attack us?”   
  
“I don’t know but I intend…” Conrí’s eyes widened in dread. “Oriana… Oren…” he turned towards the door. He hadn’t taken three steps before the door was knocked open and a screaming man was thrown out. He landed on the floor with an axe buried in his chest.   
  
“Sodding Ancestors,” Serena snapped as she followed the man out. “Can’t you just…” she seized her axe, wrenching it from the man’s chest. “Die quietly?!” she swung the axe down, splitting the invader’s head.    
  
Seeing her audience, Serena panted: “Your brother’s little nug-runner and his mother are alright.”   
  
With a sigh, she started rolling her shield arm’s shoulder. Erin darted past, followed by Eleanor.   
  
“I’m in your debt, Serena,” Conrí told her. “I will see you rewarded for this, I swear.”   
  
“I didn’t do it for the reward boss.”   


“Regardless. Where’s Brosca?”   
  
Before Serena could answer, a voice came from Erin’s room. “My lady?” A young elven girl had poked her head out. Hearing a voice calling for her Erin came back out of Fergus’s room.   
  
“Iona, are you alright?” the only Cousland daughter asked as she ran to her… companion.   
  
“I’m okay,” she assured the young woman.    
  
Oriana came out with Eleanor, leading a bawling Oren.   
  
“We have to move,” Conrí told them. “Aeducan, Koun, I need you to stay with the others while I get my armor.”    
  
Koun barked in agreement as Serena nodded. “Erin, Mother, stay in front of Oriana, Oren and Iona. Oriana,” Conrí tossed her his belt knife. “I trust you know how to use that.”    
  
Oriana nodded, her face pale with worry as she drew the blade from its sheath.    
  
Just as Conrí had finished pulling the last of his plate on, Garik burst through the door dividing the hall. “Grab something sharp and pointy! We’ve got company!”   
  
Conrí rejoined the group as more of Howe’s men poured into the hall. Erin, Eleanor and Garik drew their bows, nocking an arrow.    
  
“Loose!” Conrí barked. Three men went down with arrows sticking from their chests. Conrí, Koun and Serena charged the remaining men, cutting and mauling them down.    
  
“We have to move quickly. Serena, you and Koun are with me. We’ll clear the way as much as we can for the rest. Let’s go!”   
  


* * *

  
Conrí grunted as he and Serena helped his Bryce into the larder.    
  
“Set him down here,” Conrí told his recruit. “I’ll see if I can’t find some bandages. See if you can stop the bleeding.”   
  
“Right.”   
  
Conrí moved off, looking for something to wrap his father’s wounds. He tore up a burlap sack into a long strip before returning and helping Serena bandage the stab wound in his father’s side.   
  
“Bryce!” came a shout from the door.    
  
Conrí spun and went for his blade before realizing it was his mother.    
  
“Maker’s blood, what’s happening? You’re bleeding!”    


“Howe’s men… found me first. Almost… did me in right there. Would have… if Conrí and Serena hadn’t found me when they did.”   
  
“I’ll kill Howe for what he’s done!” Erin hissed. 

 

“He can’t get away with this…” Bryce grunted. “The king will…”   
  
“We must get you out of here!” Eleanor insisted.   
  
“I… I won’t survive the standing, I think…”   
  
“Then we’ll just have to drag you out!” Conrí barked.   
  
“Only… if you’re willing to leave pieces of me behind, pup…”   
  
“Bryce! This is no time for jokes!” Eleanor snapped. “Once Howe’s men break through the gate, they will find us! We must go!”   
  
“Someone… must find Fergus… tell him what’s happened.”   
  
“You can tell him yourself, Father,” Erin told him, her eyes watering.   
  
“Would that I could, pup,” Bryce smiled sadly.   
  
“He’s right,” Serena spoke up. “I’ve seen that kind of wound one too many times. Without a healer, he has little chance.” Conrí’s head drooped as Erin began crying in earnest.    
  
“We’ll take the others to Ostagar and tell Fergus and the king what has happened.”   
  
“Father…” Erin collapsed next to her mother, sobbing into her hands. Bryce, despite his wounds, lifted his daughters chin.   
  
“Howe thinks he will use the chaos to advance himself. Make him wrong, pup. See that justice is done. You must go. For your own sake and for Ferelden’s.”   
  
“I will Father… for you,” Erin promised.   
  
“I’ll take Howe’s head myself if I can,” Conrí swore. Bryce smiled at his younger son.   
  
“We have to leave quickly then,” Garik told them.   
  
“Bryce, are you… sure?” Eleanor asked.   
  
“Our children will not die of Howe’s treachery. They will live, and make their mark on the world.”   
  
“Erin, go with Conrí and the others. You have a better chance to escape without me.”   
  
“Eleanor…”   
  
“Hush, Bryce,” Eleanor scolded. “I’ll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won’t abandon you.”    
  
Conrí punched the floor, his gauntleted fist cracking the stone.    
  
“My place is with your father, Conrí. At his side, to death and beyond.”   
  
“I’m… so sorry it’s come to this, my love,” Bryce sobbed.   
  
“We’ve had a good life. It’s up to our children now.”   
  
“Then go pups,” Bryce gasped. “Warn your brother… and know we love you both. Oriana… I’m so sorry, dear… tell Fergus… we love him.” Oriana nodded, tears pouring down her face.    
  
A crashing of wood echoed through the palace.   
  
“They’ve broken through!” Garik cried. “We have to go, now!”

 


	6. Mysteries of the Dales

 

“What do you say, lethallan?” Tamlen asked his hunting partner.

 

Tira Mahariel grimaced as she contemplated, her arrow aimed vaguely at their quarry. While it was unlikely these three, unarmed humans were bandits, they may still cause trouble. 

 

“Let’s find out what they’re doing here.”

“Does it matter? Hunting or banditry, we’ll need to move camp if we let them live.”

 

“L-look,” said one of the humans. “We didn’t come here to be trouble. We just found a cave.”

 

“Yes! A cave!” one of his friends agreed. “With carvings like I’ve never seen! We thought there might be…”

 

“Treasure,” Tamlen snorted. “So you’re more akin to thieves than real bandits.”

 

“If you’ve been there, you should have treasure to prove it,” Tira commented fairly.

 

“Here…” the second human stammered. “We found this just inside the entrance,” he handed Tamlen a small carved statue of a woman with halla antlers.

 

“This statue has carvings… is this elvish? Written elvish?” Tamlen asked, his voice incredulous.

 

“There’s more inside the ruins… we didn’t get very far in though…”

 

“How do you know that’s elvish, Tamlen?” Tira asked, leaning over to get a look at the statue.

 

“I’ve seen something similar on the Keeper’s scrolls,” Tamlen informed her before turning back to the humans. “And this is all you found? Why didn’t you look for more?”

 

“There was a demon!” the second human blurted out. “It was huge, with black eyes! Thank the Maker we were able to out-run it!”

 

Tamlen scoffed. “A demon… where is this cave?”

 

“Just off the west I think,” the first human told them. “There’s a hole in the cliff face and the cave is just inside.”

 

“Well, what should we do with them?” Tamlen asked.

 

“You’ve frightened them enough,” Tira told him, lowering her bow and returning the arrow to her quiver. “They won’t bother us,” she added, brushing a strand of black hair out of her hazel eyes. 

 

Most of her hair had been restrained by three ponytails, one at the back of her head and two on the side, but some strands still found themselves loose. 

 

“Run along then, shems,” Tamlen told them, his tone bored, almost disappointed. “And don’t come back until we Dalish have moved on.” 

 

Tamlen turned back to Tira when the humans were out of sight. 

 

“Well, shall we see if there’s any truth to their story? These carvings make me curious.”

 

“Shouldn’t we inform the Keeper?”

 

“She might be interested in these carvings, but let’s see if there’s more before we get excited.”

 

* * *

 

“It… looks like the shems were telling the truth…” Tamlen whispered as they entered the ruin. “But these ruins look more human than elven. This place makes me nervous.”

 

“So talk then, if it’ll calm you down,” Tira told him, her hands on her swords.

 

“I suppose so… hey, weren’t you supposed to be assisting Master Ilen today? How did you end up coming with me?”

 

“I got out of it,” Tira told him. “I prefer to hunt.”

 

“Me too, even if you are a better hunter than I am…”

 

The hunters grimaced as a pair of giant spiders propelled from the ceiling, attacking them. Tira drew her swords, one long Dar Missan, the other shorter, a weapon of Tira’s own design. Tamlen fell back, drawing his bow.

 

When both spiders lay dead, the two Dalish hunters continued on. “You really think the keeper will want to come here?” Tira asked after a while.

 

“She takes any opportunity to gather elven lore. Whenever the clans come together, they exchange whatever they’ve found. She shouldn’t come here without hunters to guard her though. The air here feels so… sinister. Well, whatever it is… it won’t stop me. A Dalish hunter fears nothing!”

 

“Why did you want to come down here so badly?” Tira asked as they rounded a corner to a long hallway.

 

“Aren’t you curious? We could be discovering our history. Minstrels will write songs about us!”

 

“You aren’t fooling me, Tamlen,” Tira droned.

 

Tamlen sighed. “If I were to bring some valuable ancestral artifact back to the keeper, she might forgive me for… well, you know.”

 

“We were both brawling,” Tira told him. “I don’t see why you got punished.”

 

“Because I was caught and wouldn’t give up any names. Of course she was angry with me.”

 

The pair entered another long hallway. After a brief skirmish with a small number of spiders they kept going.

 

“I can’t believe this,” Tamlen whispered as he came up to an old statue. “You recognize this, don’t you?”

 

“It’s worn, but it looks vaguely familiar…” Tira agreed.

 

“Back when our people lived in Arlathan, statues like these honored the Creators. When the shems enslaved us, much of that lore was lost. This looks like human architecture… with a statue of our people. Can these ruins date back to the time of Arlathan?”

 

“It’s interesting,” Tira acknowledged. “So much of our past is lost to us…”

 

“I’d never have guessed ancient elves might have lived here! With humans.” Tamlen laughed briefly and started heading down the hall again. 

 

A groan stopped them cold. They both turned to look behind them. Something… was getting up off the floor. With a moan the creature started towards them, drawing a rusty sword as it did. Several more groans echoed around them as even more of the creatures were standing up. 

 

“Damn, damn, damn, damn….”

 

“Kill them!” Tira cried swinging her swords, taking a head off one and the arm off another. 

 

The beheaded one fell back down, but the second kept coming, picking up the sword from its loose hand.

 

When the last of the creatures lay dead, Tamlen panted out, “Were those walking corpses? This place is haunted!”

 

“They seemed like they were guarding that door,” Tira pointed out.

 

“Be careful, lethallan,” Tamlen hissed as Tira opened the rusty iron door. 

 

A snarl from inside made Tira jump back and ready her blade. What looked like a bear barreled through the doorway, growling and roaring as it attacked. Tamlen, thinking quickly, nocked an arrow and shot it into the beast’s eye. The twisted creature reared up, snarling in pain. Tira took her opportunity, slashing twice with her sword before plunging it hilt deep into the beast’s chest. With a last growl, the creature slumped over as Tira pulled her Dar Missan from its flesh. 

 

“By the creators! What was that thing?!” Tamlen demanded.

 

Tira panted. “I don’t know… I’m not sure I want to…”

 

“Look at that!” Tamlen gestured to a large mirror toward the back of the room. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I wonder what the writing says.”

 

“‘Do not touch the glass?’” Tira joked.

 

“Not that we’d leave a finger print on it. See how clean it is? Not a single smudge or crack. I wonder what the writing is for. Maybe this isn’t.. hey did you see that?” Tamlen pointed to a ripple on the surface of the glass.

 

“Get away from it Tamlen,” Tira murmured.

 

“Hold on, I just want to know what it is. Don’t you see it? There it is again. Can you feel that? I think it knows we’re here. I just need to take a closer look.” 

 

Despite Tira’s protests, Tamlen approached the mirror. 

 

“It’s showing me places. A city! Underground…”Another ripple emerged on the surface. 

 

“It saw me!” Tamlen cried. “Help! I can’t look away!”

 

Before Tira could move to assist her clansman, a blinding light lit the chamber and Tira knew no more.

 

* * *

 

Tira woke suddenly, reaching wildly for her blades, but they were not in their sheathes. As her heart slowed, she realized she was in the Keeper’s aravel, wrapped in furs. 

 

“You’re awake!” came a voice from the opening. 

 

Fenarel, an old friend of Tamlen’s, had poked his head inside. 

 

“You’ve the gods own luck lethallan. You’re back at the camp. Everyone is worried sick about you. How do you feel?”

 

“Tired… how did I get back here, Fenarel?”

 

“A shem brought you back two days ago. You don’t remember him?”

 

“I don’t remember anything… I was in a cave, then… nothing.”

 

“He was a Grey Warden and appeared out of nowhere with you slung over his shoulder. You were delirious with fever. He said he found you outside a cave in the forest, unconscious and alone. He left you here and ran off again. The Keeper’s been using the old magic to heal you.”

“Is anyone looking for Tamlen?” Tira asked worried. Two days…?

 

“Of course!” Fenarel exclaimed. “Most of the hunters are off looking for him right now. But the Keeper wanted to talk to you as soon as you awoke. Stay here. I’ll get her.”

 

Tira sat down, her head falling into her hands. She had lost two days? I knew we should have come straight back here… and now Tamlen’s missing… damnit, what do I do now?

 

“I see you are awake, da’len.” Tira looked up to see Keeper Marethari striding towards her. “It is fortunate Duncan found you when he did. I know not what dark power held you, but it nearly bled the life from you. It was difficult for even my magic to keep you alive.”

 

“Then Tamlen could be sick, as well?” Tira asked, standing immediately.

 

“If he encountered the same thing you did, yes. The Grey Warden said he found you alone outside a cave, already stricken. Duncan thought there might be darkspawn creatures inside the cave. Is that true?”

 

“I’m… not sure…” Tira muttered. “What does a darkspawn look like?”

 

“Like a man but dark and tainted with evil. Perhaps you fought one in the cave and it wounded you.”

 

Tira shook her head. “There were many monsters; giant spiders, a twisted looking bear and dead men that walked but nothing like you describe.”

 

“Walking corpses? Dark magic, but not darkspawn. The giant spiders are unusual but not unheard of. I know not what the bear creature might have been… What else did you find? What is the last thing you remember?”

“A mirror… Tamlen touched it…”

 

“A mirror? And it caused all this? I have never heard of such a thing in all the lore we have collected,” Keeper Marethari sighed wearily. “I was hoping for answers when you woke, but there are only more questions. Do you feel well enough to show us the way da’len? Without you we will not find it.”

 

“I am up to it, Keeper. I feel fine.”

 

“I am relieved to hear it,” Marethari smiled. “I am ordering the clan to pack the camp so we can go north. Take Merrill with you to the cave. Find Tamlen if you can, but do it quickly.”

 

“Keeper!” Fenarel came trotting up. “I wish to go with Tira if you’re sending her to find Tamlen.”

 

“Fenarel, are you certain? I am already risking Merrill; I do not what to lose you as well.”

 

“I want to help, Keeper,” Fenarel insisted. “If we can find Tamlen, it’s worth the risk.”

 

“Very well, then,” Marethari relented. “You have my permission. And thank you for asking for it.”

 

Tira and Fenarel nodded, heading towards the edge of the camp. “So you have returned to us, da’len,” a wizened voice called from near the fire. 

 

It was Hahren Paivel. 

 

“We are grateful you are whole and well.”

 

“I’m glad to be here, as well, Hahren,” Tira told him, bracing for the scolding she knew she would receive. 

 

She wasn’t disappointed.

 

“So you should be! What were you two thinking, wandering into that cave without first coming to tell the Keeper?”

 

“You’re right, Hahren,” Tira mumbled, feeling much like the chastised little girl.

 

“I suppose your youth can be forgiven,” Paivel sighed. “Sadly, Tamlen pays the price. Loosing you would be a terrible crime, da’len. You belong to more than just yourself. Or do you not remember?”

 

“I’m sorry, Hahren…”

 

“Would you even know the reason behind your efforts, I wonder?”

 

Tira and the elder told a group of children the story of the Dales and spoke for a bit longer before Tira and Fenarel left to find Merrill. The slender young mage was waiting near her aravel, looking anxious. Tira had grown up with Merrill after she had arrived at the clan at a young age. Being the Keeper’s First, she had been a bit secluded from the other children but Tira had made an effort to make friends with the shy mage.

 

“Oh, Tira, there you are!” Merrill smiled. “I was worried about you. The Keeper told me to accompany you back to those caves. I may see something you missed. Not that you’re incapable of spotting what I can, it’s just… another set of eyes may help… you know, just in case… I’ll stop rambling now…”

 

“It’s all right, Merrill,” Tira giggled. “I’m glad to have you along. We have to find Tamlen. And Fenarel wants to join us.”

 

Merrill suddenly looked worried. “Oh… the Keeper told me we were to go alone. I really don’t wish to make her angry. She has that disappointed frown that turns my bones to jelly…”

 

“I’ve already okay-ed it with the Keeper, Merrill. Don’t worry.”

 

Merrill brightened. “Alright, then, let’s get going!”

 

The trio headed into the forest. “How much has the Keeper told you?” Fenarel asked.

 

“Enough to pique my interest… and my concern,” Merrill mumbled. “You can explain the rest on the way, yes?”

 

* * *

 

“What were those things?” Merrill squeaked as Tira and Fenarel lowered their bows. A pair of squat, ghoulish creatures had attacked the group not far from the camp. “Were those darkspawn?”

 

“That would make sense…” Tira muttered.

 

“I… I’ve never seen anything like them!” Merrill fretted. “You can smell the evil on them. Where did they come from? Were they here before?”

 

“Maybe the mirror has something to do with it.”

 

“What would darkspawn have to do with the elvhen? The stories say Arlathan fell long before the darkspawn appeared. Oh, I hope we find out soon. I pray we don’t find any more of those monsters…” Merrill was drawn from her monologue when she spied Tira. “Are you alright, lethallan? Were you hurt during the fight?”

 

Tira cocked her head in confusion. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

 

“You do look quite pale now that Merrill’s mentioned it,” Fenarel agreed.

 

“I’m sure it’s just the exertion,” Tira told them.

 

“Well, I’ll keep an eye on you,” Merrill assured Tira. “You’ve only just recovered from your illness.”

 

Not far down the path, the trio of elves found the remains of a campfire. 

 

“I wonder whose camp this is…” Fenarel knelt next to the pit. “Do you remember it being here?”

 

“No, this wasn’t here before. It’s fresh,” Tira scrapped some of the charred residue from the rocks.

 

“That Grey Warden said he was returning to the cave. Perhaps this is his camp.”

 

“If so...” Merrill scratched her head. “He’s not here now. And we’ve seen no sign of Tamlen. Perhaps we should… wait… do you hear that?”

 

Tira blinked and concentrated. “No forest creatures… it’s too quiet…”

 

“Yes! The forest is too still. Something’s in the air… something… not right…”

 

“Tamlen said he felt the same thing in the cave.”“And now it’s affecting the forest? Maybe that mirror unleashed some kind of sickness. That would not be good.”

 

“That’s an understatement,” Fenarel snorted.

 

“The sooner we find this cave, and Tamlen, the sooner we can leave,” Merrill shivered. “Lethallan, we must move quickly,”

 

Tira quickly led her companions deeper into the forest, soon finding the entrance to the ruins. Tira readied her bow, unsure as to what had entered the past three days.

 

“So, these are the ruins? Amazing…” Merrill breathed. She shook herself briefly. “We must find Tamlen before I allow my mind to wander. Though… judging by those darkspawn creatures…. Could he have really survived here? I mean he could be…”

 

“Don’t talk like that!” Tira cried. “We don’t know…”

“You are right. I’m sorry…”

 

Tira sighed and led the group deeper into the cavern. A small handful of darkspawn attacked before they found the room containing the mirror. A tall, black haired human stood in the center of the chamber, his hand running through his beard thoughtfully as he examined the artifact in front of him. He turned when he heard the door open. 

 

“So you were the one fighting darkspawn. I thought I heard combat,” his dark brown eyes found Tira. “You’re the elf I found wandering the elf I found wandering the forest, aren’t you? I’m surprised you have recovered.”

 

Tira snorted, not in the mood to bandy words. “If you heard the fighting, why didn’t you help?”

 

“I would have, had I not been battling them myself. Not all the kills here were yours as you can see. My name is Duncan, and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. The last time we spoke, you were barely conscious.”

 

“Andaran atish’an, Duncan,” Merrill spoke nervously. “I am Merrill, Keeper Marethari’s First.”

 

“I am Tira.”

 

“And I am Fenarel. Did you… come here alone, human? Battling all those creatures?”“Not alone,” Duncan told him. “A pair of my newest recruits are clearing the rest of the ruin. I’m a little surprised you didn’t meet them on your way in.”

 

The door creaked open a second time, letting a pair of elves through. The first was male and tall for an elf, with muddy brown hair and a set of mage robes. The second was female, with ash blonde hair and wearing a set of simple studded leather armor. “Oh, there you are Duncan,” the female spoke.

 

“Great,” the male muttered. “Dalish.”

 

Tira frowned at the disparaging tone the mage took. “We’re looking for our brother, Tamlen,” she told the mage and Duncan.

 

“You and Tamlen both entered this cave?” Duncan asked, shooting the mage a reproachful look. “And you saw this mirror?”

 

“Yes, Tamlen touched the mirror and I blacked out.”

 

“Foolish…” the mage grumbled, earning an elbow to the ribs from his companion.

 

“I see,” Duncan sighed. “That is unfortunate. “The Grey Wardens have seen artifacts like this mirror before; it is Tevinter in origin, used for communication.”

 

“The concept was originally elvish,” the mage corrected. “If I remember correctly, they are called Eluvian. The Tevinters merely used them after the fall of Arlathan.”

 

“Over time, some of them simply… break,” Duncan continued. “They become filled with the same taint as the darkspawn. Tamlen’s touch must have released it… it is what made you sick and Tamlen, too, I presume.”

 

“We need to take it back to the Keeper,” Tira insisted.

 

“The darkspawn are drawn to the mirror. Do you want to lead them to your clan?” Duncan asked, frowning.

 

“I do not fear this sickness,” Merrill told him. “The Keeper knows how to cure it.”

 

“She may have weakened it, but she cannot cure it,” Duncan told the mage before turning back to Tira. “Your recovery is only temporary. I can sense the sickness in you, and it is spreading. Look inside yourself and you will see.”

 

“Perhaps there is… something to what you say…” Tira muttered.

 

“Confirm it with your Keeper later if you like. For now, we must deal with the mirror. It is a danger.” Duncan approached the mirror, drawing his longsword. With a single swing, the glass shattered, letting out a burst of light. When the glare cleared, Duncan returned to the group. “It is done. Now, let us leave this cursed place. I must speak with the Keeper immediately regarding your cure.”

 

“What about Tamlen?” Fenarel demanded.

 

“There is nothing we can do,” Duncan told him solemnly.

“I’m not leaving until I find him!” Tira snapped.

 

“Let me be very clear: there is nothing you can do for him,” Duncan returned firmly. “He’s been tainted for three days now, unaided. Through your Keeper’s healing arts and your own willpower, you did not die. But Tamlen has no chance. Trust me when I say that he is gone. Now, we should return.”

 

If there was one thing Tira was known for, it was how loyal she was to her friends and how stubborn she could be about them. “Won’t there at least be a body?”

 

“The darkspawn would have taken it.”

 

“Why would they take his body?” Fenarel asked. “Not to eat it… I hope…”

 

“Darkspawn are evil creatures and it’s best to leave it at that I’m… sorry.”

 

“Can we just leave the cave like this?” Tira asked. “Is it safe?”

 

“With the mirror destroyed, I doubt the darkspawn will return.”

 

“Can we return later and search the ruins?” Merrill asked. “There could be many things we can learn and find, besides the mirror.”“The cave is not safe. Everything here was exposed to the mirror’s taint. If your people must come here, they should cleanse it with fire.”

 

Tira crossed her arms. “Why not just tell me what the cure is?”

 

“It is not that simple. I would tell you more, but I must speak first with your Keeper.”

 

Tira sighed angrily. “Fine. Let’s get back to the camp…”

 

* * *

 

“I am relieved you have returned,” Marethari smiled as Tira and her group approached her aravel. “And I did not expect to see you again so soon, Duncan.”

 

“I was not expecting to return so soon either, Keeper,” Duncan rumbled.

 

“Dare I ask of Tamlen? What did you find of him?”

 

“The Warden says we will find nothing,” Tira told her bitterly.

 

“I see. Merrill, what about the mirror? Did you bring anything back?”

 

“I can answer that, Keeper,” Duncan spoke up. “I destroyed the mirror.”

 

Tira, Fenarel, Merrill, even the pair of elves following Duncan cringed when Marethari frowned at the Grey Warden. “I intended to use it to find a cure for this mysterious illness. I trust you had good reasons for your actions?”“There is much to discuss, Keeper,” Duncan assured her. “I have learned a great deal since I was last here.”

 

“Let us speak privately in my aravel then, Duncan. Merrill, warn the hunters. If darkspawn are about, I want the clan prepared.”

 

“Ma nuvenin, Keeper,” Merrill squeaked, still alarmed from Marethari’s glare. “Right away.” 

 

With that, the clan’s First scurried away.

 

“Tira, allow me some time to speak with Duncan. Seek us out at your aravel later, and we can discuss your cure.”

 

“Very well, Keeper…” Tira grimaced. 

 

The more she heard about this cure, the more it unsettled her. Why not just tell her? Could the process truly be that bad?

 

“Tell Hahren Paivel what has occurred. He now has the sad task of preparing a service for the dead. Follow me, Duncan. I am eager to hear what you have to say.”

 

Tira turned to make her way towards the fire, not surprised when Fenarel and Duncan’s recruits followed. 

 

“I wish we could have found Tamlen,” Fenarel murmured. “If those creatures… oh, I can’t bear to think about that. What do you think the Grey Warden won’t tell you about this cure? It seems rather cruel to withhold it.”

 

“It must be something terrible…” Tira pondered.

 

“Keeper Marethari won’t let him keep it from you. I say we get your cure, move the clan north, and put all this behind us.”

 

Tira nodded as they came to Hahren Paivel. Fenarel wandered off, no doubt looking for something to take his mind off the events of the day. 

 

“So you return with the Grey Warden but not Tamlen,” Paivel rumbled. “What happened, da’len? Is he truly lost to us?”

 

Tira’s head drooped as the tears she had been fighting since they left the cave finally burst out. 

 

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I failed the clan.”

 

Paivel came forward and placed his hands on Tira’s shaking shoulders. “You’ve done nothing of the sort, da’len. Do not blame yourself. It seems the will of the Creators that I sing the dirge for those I held in my arms as babes. I think I know why out immortal ancestors would sleep,” Paivel embraced the distraught hunter before turning to the fire.

 

“Swiftly do stars burn a path across the sky

 

Hastening to place one last kiss upon your eye

 

Tenderly land enfolds you in slumber

 

Softening the rolling thunder

 

Dagger now sheathed, bow no longer tense

 

During this, your last hour, only silence.” 

 

“Will you… prepare a service for Tamlen, please?” Tira asked, wiping her tears away, as Paivel finished the poem.

 

“Of course. We’ve no body to return to the soil, but we shall still sing for Tamlen. The Creators must come to guide him to the Beyond. Tell the Keeper it shall be done before the clan is ready to move on.”

 

“Thank you, Hahren. I should go.”

 

“May the gods guide your path, da’len.”

 

Tira smiled sadly as she headed towards the main part of the camp. 

 

“I… I’m sorry about your friend,” the female recruit spoke.

 

“Thank you…” Tira muttered.

 

“I’m Blair Tabris,” the elf said. “And the sourpuss with me is Tristan Surana.” The mage snorted.

 

“A pleasure to meet you both. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

 

“As do I. I… I think I found something you should see,” Blair pulled an amulet from a pouch on her belt. “I found it in the ruins. Duncan had me cleanse it over the campfire last night, so it’s perfectly safe.”

 

Tira took it. “This is… Tamlen’s amulet… you said you found this in the ruins? Where?”

 

“Near the entrance. I noticed you have a similar amulet so I thought… this one might mean something to you,”

 

“Thank you,” Tira breathed. “I’ll… have to give it to Hahren Paivel before the funeral…”

 

Blair nodded and stepped back as the trio arrived at Tira’s aravel. Duncan and the Keeper waited outside.

 

“Your Keeper and I have spoken and we’ve come to an arrangement that concerns you,” Duncan announced. “My order is in need of help. You are in need of a cure. When Blair, Tristan and I leave, I hope you will join us. You would make an excellent Grey Warden.”

 

“I can’t just leave my clan,” Tira protested. 

 

“And we would not send you away,” Marethari assured her. “But there is more at stake.”

 

“The darkspawn taint courses through your veins,” Duncan told Tira. “That you recovered at all is remarkable. But eventually, the taint will sicken and kill you, or worse. The Grey Wardens can prevent that, but it means joining us.”

 

“I won’t join out of pity,” Tira growled.

 

“This is not simply charity on my part. I would not offer this if I did not think you had the makings of a Grey Warden. Let me be clear: You will likely never return here. We go to fight the darkspawn, a battle that will take us far from your clan. But we need you and others like you.”

 

“Is… is the clan sending me away?” Tira asked the Keeper.

 

“A great army of darkspawn gathers in the south,” Marethari told her. “A new Blight threatens the land. We cannot outrun this storm. Long ago, the Dalish agreed to aid the Grey Wardens against a Blight, should that day arrive. We must honor that agreement.”Tears began to threaten in Marethari’s eyes. “It breaks my heart to send you away. As it would to watch you die slowly from this sickness. This is your duty, and your salvation.”

 

“This all I’ve ever known!” Tira cried. “This is my home!”

 

“A home that the darkspawn may tear apart,” Duncan told her bluntly. “This way, you can find a cure and protect your clan. Have courage.”

 

Marethari continued before Tira could snap at Duncan. “I cannot express my sadness at sending one of our daughters off into such danger, away from the clan that loves her. But if this is what the Creators intend for you, da’len, meet your destiny with your head held high. No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that.”

 

Tira ducked her head to hide her tears. “If this is my duty,” she whispered. “Then I will go.”

 

“I welcome you to the order,” Duncan told the sick hunter. “It is rare to have a Dalish amongst us, but they have always served with distinction.” 

 

Blair grimaced. The welcome was undoubtedly making Tira feel worse. Especially after how bluntly he’d described the death of her clan.

 

“I know you’ll do your clan proud, da’len. Take this ring,” Marethari pressed the carved willow onto Tira’s middle finger. “It is your heritage and will protect you from the darkness to come.”

 

“A valuable gift. So… are you ready to go?” Duncan asked.

 

“I would like to stay for Tamlen’s funeral,” Tira told him, fingering the ring Marethari had given her.

 

“We have much ground to cover, but I cannot deny you that. Say your farewells… then we must be off.”

 

“Come then, da’len,” Marethari beckoned. “Before the Creators guide you from us, let your clan embrace you one last time.”

 

* * *

 

Tamlen’s funeral was very hard for Tira. Being a woman who shed no tears during her vallaslin writing, many of the clan were almost alarmed to see her sobbing silently as Hahren Paivel gave Tamlen’s eulogy.

 

After the songs were sung and Tamlen’s amulet buried, the clan gathered around their departing sister. Ashalle, the woman who practically raised Tira, embraced her before slipping a necklace over her head. 

 

“This was your mother’s, da’len. I know she’d want you to have it.”

 

“Thank you,” Tira mumbled, hugging her guardian. 

 

Ashalle had told her the story of her family earlier that evening. It was a sad tale, but Tira was glad she had heard it.

 

Merrill came forward next. The young mage looked absolutely miserable. 

 

“I’m going to miss you,” Merrill mumbled. 

 

Tira pulled her into an embrace. “And I you, lethallan. But I need you to be strong. The clan needs everyone right now.”

 

Merrill nodded sadly. “Will… will I ever see you again?”

 

“Of course. I refuse to let this be goodbye forever.”

 

Merrill smiled and pulled Tira in tighter. “Until we meet again, lethallan.”

 

“Until we meet again.”

 


	7. Exodus

 

Conrí spurred his horse, urging the stallion to run faster across the plane, what remained of his family and his new recruits nipping at his heels. The group had been riding through the night to escape Howe and his men. 

 

“Brother!” Erin groaned. “I think we’ve put enough distance between Howe and us.”

 

Conrí slowed his black steed to a stop. “Aye…” he dismounted from his winded horse and began pulling supplies from its back. “Here,” he dropped a few bedrolls near Erin’s horse. “Get a fire going. I’ll see about getting us a meal. Koun,” Conrí looked to his faithful war hound. The poor dog had flopped down and was panting in the grass but when his master called his name, Koun had dutifully raised his head. Conrí sighed. “Stay here, old boy, and rest. You’ve earned it.” Koun huffed and began lapping up the water Erin had placed in front of him.

 

“Uh, boss?” Garik called. He was still on the back of his and Erin’s horse. “How-how do I get down?”

 

Serena sighed. “Do what I do, Duster,” she said as she demonstrated. “Swing your right leg over to the left side so you’re sitting like this,” Serena had both legs dangling off the left side of the bay mare she had been riding. “And just slide off,” with a clank of metal, her armored feet landed on the soft grass. 

 

Garik nodded uncertainly and did as Serena had showed him. When his feet hit the ground, Garik groaned and immediately cupped his groin. When the pain wasn’t quite as blinding, he stumbled off. “Hold on while I find my balls for the Ancestors’ sakes….”

 

Conrí shook his head and grabbed his bow. “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to see if I can catch us anything to eat. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

 

After Conrí left, Erin, Serena and Garik started setting up camp. With no tents, they would have to make do with bedrolls. Serena and Garik looked up at the dark sky, a little more comfortable at night than during the day. They could convince themselves they were just in a giant cavern, at least enough to sleep without nightmares.

 

Conrí returned about an hour later with a buck slung over his shoulder and dragging a wild pig. Both had already been bled so Erin and Oriana set to work carving both, stripping their hides for sale to a tanner, if at all possible. 

 

“I think we can get a few pounds of jerky out of these,” Erin theorized.

 

Conrí nodded. “Do it. I’ll get a stew started. I found some herbs while hunting so it will have some flavor at least.”

 

Erin and Oriana carved what they hadn’t put aside for jerky, placed the meat in a large shallow dish and braised it before dropping the cooked meat into the stew pot. Garik and Conrí sat around the fire, grumbling hungrily even as the women scolded them to sit still and act like men rather than boys. Of course this made them grumble all the more.

 

Dinner was cooked and consumed, with Conrí surprising the group with the amount he ate. “It’s a Grey Warden thing,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “We have a hell of an appetite.” After the dishes were cleaned in a nearby river, Erin and Oriana went about smoking the remaining meat for jerky over a separate flame. Once everyone had settled back around the fire, silence filled the air. After several minutes, Conrí drew his belt knife. After gazing at his reflection in the blade for a long moment, he reached up and grabbed his long braid, running the sharp metal through it near the base of the tail. He left it just long enough to be pulled back but allowed it to fall around his face. Still gripping his severed hair, he handed the blade to Erin, who repeated his actions. The pair went silently to the river and dropped their cut hair into the river, watching as it drifted downstream. 

 

Garik raised an eyebrow as the twins returned to the fireside. “Um… don’t mean to pry but what the sod was that?” he asked as Conrí flipped a few of the logs with a thick stick.

 

“An old Alamarri custom,” Oriana told him, running her fingers through Oren’s hair as the young boy slept with his head on her thigh. “When a warrior would fail a superior in battle, he would cut his hair shorter, acknowledging his failure.”

 

“It’s fitting,” Conrí grumbled.

 

“I fail to see how what happened at Highever was in any way your fault,” Serena pointed out from her sharpening of her axe. Conrí had given her the weapon when they arrived on the surface. The design, he said, was made famous by the Ash Warriors.

 

“I couldn’t protect my parents. As the eldest child in the castle it was my duty to fight…” Conrí clenched his fist, the steel of his gauntlet protesting “.…and I ran like a coward.”

 

“Howe’s men would have killed us all if we had stayed,” Oriana told him. “You know this. Because we still breathe, we can tell the king of the Arl’s treachery. We couldn’t save everyone, but we can avenge them, little brother.”

 

Conrí sighed and tossed the stick he was holding into the fire. “I’ll take first watch. The rest of you, get some sleep. I’ll wake Serena for second watch and Garik will take last. We leave at first light. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to Lothering by nightfall the day after tomorrow.”

 

The group bedded down for the night and continued on in the morning. Garik had been assigned to ride behind Serena on her horse. “I warn you, Brosca,” Serena grumbled as Garik rested his hands on her waist. “If your hands start straying, I will knock you off and leave you there.”

 

“My lady, I am a gentleman,” Garik protested in his best imitation of a noble. “I would never dream of doing anything untoward to one such as you.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Well, I would dream, but my self-preservation instinct is too great to actually do it.” Serena sighed in exasperation as Garik chuckled.

 

They came across a caravan headed to Lothering and agreed to escort the driver in exchange for allowing Oriana and Oren to ride in the back. The driver seemed a mite intimidated by the group, especially when Conrí told him they were Wardens and Warden recruits. Conrí felt it best not to tell this stranger who Erin, Oriana and Oren were just in case the man was in Howe’s employ. 

 

Their luck turned out to be greater than they realized. It was mid afternoon on the third day when Lothering came into sight. The travelers let their horses rest for the night and went about trading for supplies. The hides they had gotten from the deer and boar had fetched a decent price, enough to buy extra food for the trip to Ostagar. Conrí was just finishing his dealings with a food merchant when he spied a familiar face approaching the town’s main thoroughfare. 

 

“Duncan!” he greeted with a raised hand.

 

“Warden-Lieutenant,” Duncan nodded. “You are early. I expected you to have more trouble in Orzammar.”

 

“We managed to clear out the old Aeducan Thaig, and I have two new recruits,” Conrí told him. “Aeducan, Brosca, front and center.” The dwarves approached Conrí and Duncan. “Serena Aeducan, Garik Brosca, this is Warden-Commander Duncan. Duncan, this is Serena and Garik.”

 

“Did you say Aeducan?” Duncan asked, his brow furrowed. “Conrí I told you to avoid recruiting too close to the royal line.”

 

“I wasn’t recruited in the common meaning of the word,” Serena told him. “I was betrayed by my brother Bhelen and sent to walk the Deep Roads. I managed to come across Conrí and the Wardens with him and agreed to join.”

 

“Hm. We shall see if your skill in battle is enough to warrant my lieutenant’s favor,” Duncan told her. “Joining the Wardens is not simple charity,”

 

“Oh, please, Duncan,” Conrí scoffed. “If recruiting Ser Jory wasn’t charity, than you need to get your head checked out. He has some skill with a blade, true, but he’s a bloody coward. When I left, he was whining about having to go through more tests.”

 

“He won the--”

 

“The grand melee in Redcliffe, I know. What you forget to mention was I trounced him at seventeen,” Conrí interrupted. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you about that sorry excuse for a knight. Serena survived alone in the Deep for hours, picking up scraps of armor on the way. If that doesn’t qualify as Warden material, I don’t know what is. Brosca won a glory Proving in the Warden’s honor, beating the best the Warrior Caste had to offer. The dwarves will never admit it, though, seeing as he’s casteless.”

 

“It’s true,” Serena agreed. “Orzammar was in an uproar for days that a casteless had ‘befouled’ a Proving.”

 

“Thanks, Princess, tell me how you really feel,” Garik muttered.

 

“We stopped at Highever before turning south but things…” Serena looked towards Conrí, who had dropped his gaze and was clenching his fist again. “Did not go as planned.”

 

“Arl Howe sacked Highever Castle,” Erin told Duncan, resting her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Our parents are dead.”

 

Duncan sighed. “You have my condolences. Unfortunately, the Blight calls us to Ostagar. Will your group be prepared to make the journey tomorrow?”

 

“Bright and early,” Conrí said dully. “My sister-in-law and nephew are staying here in Lothering until the battle is over. Erin, could you get us some rooms at the tavern?”

 

“Of course,” Erin nodded and made her way towards Dane’s Refuge.

 

“You brought your sister?” Duncan asked.  
  
“Don’t even think about it, Duncan,” Conrí growled, anger in his eye. “You gave your word, and I intend to see you keep it. Erin is not one of my recruits. Odds are my choice is dead in Highever.”

 

“We need every Warden we can find,” Duncan told him.

 

“No,” Conrí snapped. “You swore, and I swore to my father that I would be the only Cousland to join the Wardens. It’s staying that way. End of discussion and if the words Right of Conscription come out of your mouth, I swear by all that is holy, I will break your jaw.”

 

“So the Grey Wardens can threaten their superiors,” came a snide voice. Three elves had followed Duncan, two female and one male. The young man had spoken. “Good to know.”

 

“I’m sorry. Who the Void are you?” Conrí asked, not exactly in the mood to be civil.

 

“Tristan Surana of the Circle, Tira Mahariel of the Sabrae clan and Blair Tabris of Denerim,” Duncan gestured to each elf in turn. “This is your Warden-Lieutenant Conrí Cousland. He answers only to the Senior Wardens and myself. You three, I shall get us some rooms at the tavern as well. Meet me there once you have you supplies.” With that, Duncan followed Erin towards the inn.

 

“Cousland?” Blair asked. “As in the Couslands of Highever?”

 

Conrí nodded. “Aye. My father was the Teyrn, Bryce Cousland.”

 

“Wonderful,” Tristan sneered. “A noble brat. What’s next, a dwarven Princess to go along with the stuck up shem and the haughty Dalish.” This earned a glare from Blair, Tira and Conrí.

 

Serena crossed her arms. “Serena Aeducan, second child of King Endrin of Orzammar. So, yeah, you do get a dwarven princess.”

 

Tristan scowled and strode towards the merchants. “Sorry about him,” Blair told Serena and Conrí. “He’s been unbearable since Tira joined us.”

 

“He keeps it up and he’s not gonna be able to talk after I feed him his teeth,” Serena grumbled. “Are all mages as belligerent as him?”

 

“No, my Keeper, Marethari was always very civil even with shem… sorry, humans,” Tira said haltingly.

 

“Yes, that’s one thing I’m not going to deal with. No racial slurs,” Conrí told the remaining recruits. “No Shemlen, shem, knife-ear, flat-ear, short-mouth. None of any of that. Clear?” the recruits nodded. “Good. And despite what sparkle-fingers over there thinks,” Conrí added, gesturing to Tristan as he bartered with a merchant. “I’m not a lord anymore. So none of this ‘milord’ nonsense. Couldn’t stand it when I was a possible heir and I can’t stand it now.”

 

Both Tira and Blair seemed surprised. They had never met a human noble, at least one that didn’t feel entitled to the world. Blair shuddered as she remember what that bastard Vaughn had done to Shianni.

 

“So, Blair right?” Conrí continued, his attention falling on the shorter elf. She nodded. “Duncan said you were from Denerim. How did he come to recruit you?”

 

“I killed a noble who raped my cousin,” Blair told him bluntly.

 

Conrí’s eyes widened for a moment before he sighed. “Vaughn, Arl Urien’s son?”

 

“You knew him?” Blair asked, readying herself for a fight.

 

“Only through my brother Fergus. Vaughn and Fergus were best friends once upon a time. But when Fergus decided to marry Oriana, Vaughn insulted her and Fergus broke his jaw. I can’t say Vaughn didn’t have it coming if half the rumors were true. Whether you meant to or not, you’ve done Fereldan a favor. And with Arl Urien dead at Ostagar, you don’t have to worry about reprisals.” Blair blinked in surprise, expecting a tirade about killing Vaughn. Who on earth was this human? “So, Tira, how did Duncan rope you into joining our merry band of misfits?”

 

Tira explained her story as the group made their way to the inn. “You have my condolences, Tira. I know what it feels like to lose a friend,” Conrí told her. “Unfortunately, Duncan was right. After three days with no treatment… well, death would be a release.”

 

“That… isn’t what I wanted to hear,” Tira mumbled.

 

“I know,” Conrí nodded, patting Tira gruffly on the shoulder.

 

They entered the inn, followed not long after by Tristan, his arm laden with extra food. The recruits were divided up into several rooms to sleep for the night. The next morning, Duncan had found a few extra horses and the Wardens prepared to leave. Oriana came forward leading a sleepy Oren to say goodbye. “Be careful, you two. And send Fergus our love.”  
  
“We will,” Erin smiled.  
  
“Bye, Uncle. Bye, Auntie,” Oren called drowsily.

 

“Wait!” a voice called from the Chantry courtyard. A young red-haired lay sister trotted towards the group with a large basket in her arms. Despite everything going through his head lately, Conrí couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was. “Here, take this,” she said handing Conrí the basket. “The Chantry doesn’t have much, but I had the cooks bake up some bread and biscuits for your trip. I thought a group of Grey Wardens could always do with a little extra strength.”

 

“Thank you miss….?” Conrí questioned as he passed the basket to Erin.

 

“Leliana. My name is Leliana.”

 

* * *

 

“The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands,” Conrí explained to the recruits as the group made their way towards the base camp for the Fereldan army. They had left their horses at the makeshift stable near the Tower of Ishal. 

 

“It’s fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a very different foe within that forest,” Duncan went on. “The king’s forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Grey Wardens in Fereldan at the moment, but all of us are now here.”

 

“This Blight must be stopped, here and now,” Conrí rumbled. “If it spreads to the north… Fereldan may fall.”

 

“Ho there, Duncan,” a tall, blonde haired manapproached the group and gripped forearms with Duncan.

 

“King Cailan? I didn’t expect a…”

 

“A royal welcome?” King Cailan smiled roguishly. “I was beginning to think you would miss all the fun.”

 

“Not if I could help it, your Majesty,” Duncan told him humbly.

 

“Then I shall have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious!” Cailan smiled. “The other Wardens tell me you and your Lieutenant have found some promising recruits. I take it this is them?”

 

“Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty.”

 

“There’s no need to be so formal, Duncan,” Cailan admonished the elder Warden. “We’ll be shedding blood together after all. Ho there, friends, might I know your names?”

 

“I am Tristan Surana, your Majesty,” Tristan bowed. While he was mostly belligerent, Tristan knew when to be courteous.

 

“Pleased to meet you, and all of you as well,” Cailan smiled at the newest Warden recruits. “The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one, am glad to help them. I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi, Tristan. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?”

 

Tristan smirked and let hoarfrost spread over his hand as he lifted it to show the king. “I may have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

 

“Excellent. We have too few mages here, another is always welcome. And you, my lady?” Calian moved to stand in front of Tira.

 

“I am Tira Mahariel,” Tira said, inclining her head.

 

“You are Dalish are you not? I hear your people possess remarkable skill and honor.”

 

Tira frowned slightly. “I thought humans considered us dangerous vagrants.”

 

Cailan looked a mite uncomfortable. It was obvious he wished to avoid offending the woman. “To be fair, your people can be a bit… standoffish. Not that I blame them, of course. And if half the stories of the Dalish skill with a bow are true, you will be a great help. You are most welcome here, my lady.” Tira nodded with a small smile to show Cailan had done no lasting harm. “Might I know your name, my friend?” Cailan’s attention had turned to Blair.

 

“Blair Tabris, your Majesty.”

 

“By your armor and weapons, I would guess you hail from a city or village, no?”

 

“I’m from Denerim, actually,” Blair told him.

 

“As am I! Though I’ve not been in the palace for some time. Do you come from the Alienage?” Blair nodded. “Tell me, how is it there? My guards all but forbid me going there.”

 

Blair sighed. “I killed an Arl’s son for raping my cousin.”

 

Cailan blinked in alarm. “You… what?”

 

“Your Majesty, I would not have put it so bluntly. There are events in Denerim you should be aware of.”

 

“So it seems. I take it Vaughn Kendells was the perpetrator?”

 

“Yes, your Majesty,” Blair told him, her fingers twitching as she remembered her daggers slicing through Vaughn’s neck.

 

“That little troll… I knew he would end up with such a fate… I believe this is what the Antivans refer to as beautiful irony. And a pair of Orzammar’s finest. Might I know your names?”

 

“I am Serena Aeducan, your Majesty.   
  
“Garik Brosca. Good to meet’cha!” Serena flicked Garik in the ear. “OW! What was that for?!”

 

“Be respectful, Brand,” Serena hissed.

  
Cailan chuckled. “It is good to see a few of the honorable stout folk outside Orzammar.”

 

“You must not have met many of the noble caste,” Serena chuckled.

 

“Sounds like there’s a story behind that. You must regale me with it sometime.”  
  
“If your Majesty wishes.”  
  
“I do. I’ll make sure to have the finest dwarven brew brought up from the palace cellars. After we’ve dealt with the Blight, of course.”

 

“To be completely honest, your Majesty, I think we’d all prefer a surface ale. It is much more pleasant to the taste and less likely to poison a body.” Cailan smiled, his relief apparent. Must’ve had an ill encounter with lichen ale, Serena thought.

 

“I’ve been to Orzammar. King Endrin invited my father to a Grand Proving, long ago. How does Endrin fare these days?”

 

“I’m his daughter,” Serena told him. “And he was fine when I saw him last.”

 

“Well… it seems your story may be even more interesting than I suspected.”

 

“You have no idea, Majesty,” Garik grimaced slightly.

 

“Erin?” Cailan asked as he came to the bowing Cousland. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here. A pleasure as always.”

 

“You’re too kind, your Majesty,” Erin smiled warmly as she rose.

 

“Bah, dispense with the formalities, my dear,” Cailan told her as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “They have no place between old friends. You are joining the Wardens as well?”

 

“Not at the moment, Cailan. I believe the Wardens have all the Cousland they can handle with my dear brother.”

 

“Speaking of which…” Cailan trailed off as he approached Conrí with a unhappy smirk. “Well, well, well. So, the infamous Warden-Lieutenant Conrí Cousland finally decides to drag his arse back to Ostagar. I am most disappointed in you, Warden. You’ve kept me waiting for some time. Sampling the wine, women and song on your travels, eh?”

 

“Of course not, your Majesty. My mission took priority,”

 

“Ha! I’ve heard that story fall from your lips before. I don’t buy it anymore now than I did back then.”

 

“Well, you were only a prince back then, your Majesty. But what man would lie to his king?” Conrí raised his eyes with a wicked grin.

 

Cailan held for a few moments before a true smile broke over his face. “Haha! Come here, you mangy hound!” he laughed embracing Conrí as an old friend. “Well, you’ve finally returned,” Cailan said as he broke away from Conrí. “Now I shall have one of my greatest friends at my side as we battle the scourge of Thedas. Besides Duncan and Loghain, there’s no one I’d rather fight alongside of.”

 

“You prefer two old men to me, Cailan?” Conrí asked. “I’m hurt. So very hurt.”

 

“I’m sure. Fergus has already arrived with Highever’s men but we are still waiting on your father,” At the mention of his father all mirth left Conrí’s eyes. “What’s wrong? What has happened?”  
  
“My mother and father are dead, Cailan. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished.”

 

“Oriana?” Cailan asked, horror etched into his young face as he gripped Conrí’s forearm. “Oren?”  
  
“They live, Cailan. Safe in Lothering,” Conrí assured him.

 

Cailan sighed in relief before his expression filled with anger and disgust. “I… I can scarcely believe it. How could he think he could get away with such treachery? As soon as we are done here, I shall turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word.”

 

“What kind of justice?” Erin asked darkly.

 

“He will hang!” Cailan stated empathetically. “I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will not profit from this,” his expression saddened. “No doubt you two wish to see your brother. Unfortunately he and his men are scouting in the wilds,”

  
“I… am not eager to tell him, Cailan,” Conrí mumbled. Cailan lifted his hand to Conrí’s shoulder and squeezed it.

 

“Of that, I have no doubt. I am sorry for your loss, truly, but there is nothing more I can do at present. All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being.”

 

“I intend to,” Conrí growled, sounding every bit his namesake.

 

Cailan nodded. “I’m sorry to cut this short, my friends, but I must return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies,” Cailan said, rolling his eyes at the thought.

 

“Your uncle sends his greetings, and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week...” Duncan began to remark, but Cailan waved his hand, dismissing the old Warden’s comments with a bark of laughter. 

 

“Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory! We’ve won three battles against these monsters, and tomorrow should be no different!”

 

“You sound very confident of that...” Serena remarked, raising an eyebrow. 

 

Cailan favored her with a roguish grin and replied “Over confident, some might say. Right, Duncan?” he said, winking at the older man.

 

Duncan, however, did not share the king’s good humor. In a solemn tone of voice, he calmly but firmly protested “Your Majesty, I am not so sure the Blight will be ended as quickly as you imagine...” 

 

The King again brushed aside his concerns. “I’m not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an archdemon.”

 

“Disappointed, Cailan?” Conrí asked, raising an eyebrow. 

 

Cailan sighed. “I’d hoped for a war like in the old tales. A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do! Ah, I must go before Loghain sends out a search party,” he concluded with a chagrined scowl. “Farewell, Grey Wardens,” he finished with a bow. The Wardens gave full bows and Cailan departed with his honor guard, heading back across the bridge.

 

Once they were alone again, Duncan turned to others and said, “What the king said is true. They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn already.”

 

“And yet you don’t sound very reassured,” Garik remarked. Duncan gave a weary nod and sighed, then motioned for Conrí, Erin and the recruits to walk with him towards the bridge. As they walked, Duncan continued talking, and everyone could hear the unease in his voice. “Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde only grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to surely outnumber us. I know there is an archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feelings.”

 

“Why not?” Tristan asked. “He clearly holds the Grey Wardens in high regard.”

 

“Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Warden contingent from Orlais: he believes our legend makes him invulnerable,” Duncan replied. “Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can, and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay.”

 

“A hot meal might be nice, first,” Serena quipped. The biscuits and bread were hours behind them. 

 

Duncan chuckled. “I agree. We have until nightfall to begin the ritual. Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden. The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon,” Duncan turned to Tira. “The Joining is what will cure you of the suffering your tainted blood surely brings you. If it had been possible, I would have done it before now.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this cure before?” Tira demanded.

 

“It is a secret,” Duncan told her grimly. “And it is not a simple antidote. The Joining is what will make you a Grey Warden.”

 

Tira pressed on. “Why is this ritual so secret?”

 

Now Duncan definitely looked unhappy as he solemnly answered. “The Joining is dangerous. I cannot say more of it, except to say that you will learn all in good time. Until then, you must trust that what is done...is necessary.” This did little to allay Tira’s fears, but she wisely chose not to pursue the matter. Even so, she couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy at the thought of what this initiation ritual might entail.

 

“Are we the only recruits you have?” she enquired. 

 

Duncan looked relieved at the change in subject as he answered. “No, there are two recruits here already. They have been waiting for us to arrive.”

 

“Wonderful. Well, let’s get this over with, then,” Tristan muttered. 

 

Duncan nodded and they continued walking towards the bridge, stopping just before it. “Feel free to explore the camp as you wish; all I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits.” At this, he handed everyone but Erin a medallion like the one he and Conrí wore; a silver chain holding a griffon carved from pearl. “This will identify you as a member of the Grey Wardens, so all may know you are one of our number. Conrí, your hound can stay with me while I attend to some business; I must head for the valley and should be back in an hour. When I get back, you can find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, if you need to.”

 


	8. Eye of the Storm

 

The group split up after they crossed the bridge. Conrí had some things to deal with in the main army camp so he told the others he would find them before the Joining and headed off. 

 

Tristan headed off towards the infirmary. While healing wasn’t his strongest suit, he could knit bones and heal flesh efficiently. As he was helping a healer mend a compound fracture, he met one of the other recruits. A balding man of middle years approached as Tristan and the healer looked over the wounded man’s leg. “Greetings. You must be one of the other recruits we’ve heard about,” he said with a friendly grin.

 

“Yes, I am Tristan,” the young elf said as he wrapped his patient’s leg with a thick bandage. “Keep off it for a few hours and you should be ready when the battle begins.”

 

“Ser Jory is my name,” the warrior announced. “I hail from Redcliffe where I served as a knight under the command of Arl Eamon,” Jory frowned slightly. “I was not aware elves could join the Grey Wardens. All the other Wardens are human.”

 

Tristan snorted. “I am a mage, Knight. I assume that means I’m qualified.”

 

“I… had heard mages joined but…” Jory stuttered. “I had not… that is…”

 

Tristan rolled his eyes at the knight’s cowardice. “I’m not going to hurt you… without reason.”

 

“Yes, I… I apologize. I have always found magic unnerving. I should be pleased that, in this case, it will be on our side. I suppose since you’re finally here, I’d best get back to Duncan. I shall see you there.” The knight all but fled the infirmary, leaving Tristan and the healer he was assisting shaking their heads.

 

“What do we have here?” came an unfamiliar voice from behind Tristan. An elderly woman in mage robes stood near one of the triage cots. “I heard one of the new Grey Warden recruits was from the Circle. I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Wynne, and I congratulate you on your Harrowing. Marvelous work, the Fade is a dangerous place.”

 

“Yes, I know all about that,” Tristan muttered, thinking back to Mouse. 

 

“Oh-ho, you know all there is to know already, do you?” Wynne chuckled. “Irving said as much about you, Tristan Surana -- remarkable self-confidence. So, a Grey Warden, fighting alongside the king. Not too shabby for someone just out of apprenticeship.”

  
“King Cailan thinks the battle will go well,” Tristan commented. 

 

“The king must always seem confident. His behavior affects the troops’ morale. He does seem to find his enthusiasm easily though. Reminds me of a puppy. And I say that with both respect and affection. He is a fine man.”

 

While Tristan and Wynne discussed the darkspawn and their connection to the Fade, Serena and Garik sought out the quartermaster, hoping to get Serena a matching set of armor. The patchwork of metal she had scavenged in the Deep Roads was beginning to fall apart. Tira was also browsing the man’s wares. “You there! Elf!” the quartermaster barked. “Where is my armor? And why are you dressed so preposterously?”

 

Tira turned, ready to tear into the mouthy human when a voice behind him spoke up. “She’s no servant, idiot,” Serena snapped as Garik helped her buckle the pauldron of her newly purchased heavy chainmail. “She’s a Warden Recruit.”

 

“She is?” the quartermaster stumbled. “I… please forgive my rudeness! There are so many elves running about, and I’ve been waiting for… it’s simply been so hectic! I never thought…. P-please pardon my terrible manners. I am just the quarter master, a simple man, no one special…”

 

Tira crossed her arms. “Perhaps you should treat your servants more kindly,” she said coolly.

 

“Y-yes, of course. You’re very right. Did you… come for some supplies perhaps?”

 

“I need arrows. How much for twenty?”

 

“2 silver.” Tira exchanged the two silver for her arrows in bundles of ten and slipped the projectiles into her quiver after untying them.

 

“Well, you’re not what I thought you’d be,” came a smooth voice to Tira’s right. A young man, not much older than Conrí, stood leaning against one of the dilapidated pillars lining the ramp up to the infirmary. 

 

“And what did you think I’d be?” Tira asked with a smirk.

 

“Not an elf. Yet here you are,” the young man smiled. “The names Daveth. About bloody time you came along; I was beginning to think they’d cooked this ritual up for our benefit!”

 

“Isn’t that a little paranoid?” Tira asked. 

 

Daveth shrugged. “Depends on what kinda life you’ve led. Me, I’m perfectly willing to believe this ‘Joining’ is some kind of punishment. If you’re interested, I think I found out something on it. I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, and I heard a couple of Grey Wardens talking, so I listened in for a bit. I reckon they plan to send us into the Wilds.”

 

“Aren’t there barbarians in those forests?” Tira enquired; she’d heard stories of the Chasind tribes and their plundering raids on southern Ferelden. 

 

“Chasind barbarians, yes. Cannibals. And witches, too! And now darkspawn. My home village isn’t far and I grew up on tales of the Wilds...even been in there a few times! Scary place...” he finished with a slight shudder.

  
“Seems like an odd place for an army to camp,” Tira remarked. 

 

“I’m told the Blight started deep in the forest, so the army’s here waiting for them to come out. Dangling meat in front of the bear, so to speak.” 

 

Tira nodded at this logic; considering the preparations she’d seen being made in the valley, the king’s forces were clearly intending for the darkspawn to come at them. Tira could only hope that the choice of position would give them an advantage against the horde.

 

“It’s too secretive for me; makes my nose twitch,” Daveth commented. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see...like we’ve got a choice!”

 

“I’ll watch your back if you watch mine,” Tira told him. It seemed like she could trust this human.

 

“Oh, I’ll watch your back, alright,” Daveth chuckled. He had a jokingly lecherous smile on his face.

 

“Just don’t get distracted back there,” Tira smirked.

 

“I’ll try to keep my wits about me. Anyway, I expect it’s time to get back to Duncan. That’s where I’ll be, if you need me for anything.” Daveth headed off to the west of the camp, in the direction of a large blue tent marked with the griffon emblem of the Wardens.

 

Serena and Garik made their way to the old temple where the quartermaster had told them Alistair was headed, looking for one of the Circle Mages.

 

“What is it now?” asked a grumpy voice as they neared the temple. “Haven’t Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?” a middle aged mage stood a few feet from an obviously uncomfortable young man in a set of worn but usable splintmail. This was obviously Alistair.

 

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence,” he said.

 

“What her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me!” the mage scoffed. “I am busy helping the Grey Wardens-- by the king’s orders, no less!”

 

“Should I have asked her to write a note?” Alistair quipped.

 

The mage’s scowl only deepened and he glowered coldly at the young fellow. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

 

The young man’s eyebrows rose and he sarcastically answered. “Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message.” 

 

“Your glibness does you no credit!”

 

“Oh, and here I thought we were getting along so well,” the young Warden replied with a frown of sarcastic hurt. “I was going to name one of my children after you...the grumpy one.” 

 

The mage threw up his hands with an annoyed snarl of exasperation and snapped, “Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must!” He turned on his heel and stormed away, forcing Garik to jump back as the mage barged past him. “Get out of my way, fool!”

 

The young Warden sighed and commented, “You know one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.” 

 

His lopsided grin proved infectious as Garik, for the first time that day, allowed himself to smile honestly as he answered, “I know what you mean.” Serena rolled her eyes with a smirk.

 

Their companion chuckled with a cheesy grin “It’s like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands…that would give the darkspawn something to think about!” His face suddenly gained a pensive look as he uncertainly asked “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you’re more mages?”

 

“How can dwarves be mages?” Serena asked, her eyebrow raising.

 

“You never know. These mages sneak up on you,” the young man frowned speculatively. “Wait, I do know who you are: you’re Conrí’s new recruits, from Orzammar. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize.”

 

“And how would you recognize us?” Serena enquired. 

 

“Conrí sent word. He spoke quite highly of you” the man answered. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alistair, the new Grey Warden, though I guess you already knew that. As the junior member of the Order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.” 

 

“Pleased to meet you. I am Serena and this is Garik,” At this, Alistair grimaced and slapped his own forehead as though unable to believe his own stupidity. 

 

“Right, those were the names. Hmm. There haven’t been any dwarven Grey Wardens in some time. You must know a lot about darkspawn.”

 

“Nobody knows much about them,” Garik shrugged. “You kill them.”

 

“That’s a sound policy to be sure,” Alistair nodded. “But the Grey Wardens have always believed it’s important to know your enemy. To know them is to know how to destroy them,” Alistair shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyhow, whenever you’re ready let’s head back to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started.”

 

“That argument we saw,” Garik started as they began walking. “What was it about?”

 

“With the mage? The Circle of Magi is here at the King’s request, and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit: they just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position; I was once a Templar.”

 

Serena and Garik exchanged a raised eyebrow. “What’s a Templar?”

 

“You don’t know? Oh, right. Orzammar. Quick version then. The Chantry tries to control mages because they’re dangerous, so they keep Templars that train to hunt down and kill apostates. That’s what I was being trained as when Duncan recruited me six months ago, not long after he snatched up Conrí,” Alistair sighed. “I’m sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult-sending me as her messenger-and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan said we’re all to co-operate and get along. Apparently, they didn’t get the same message.”

 

While Serena, Garik and Alistair were heading back towards the Grey Warden tent, Blair was at the kennels, looking at the dogs. “Hm… this isn’t good,” the Kennel Master mumbled as he looked in on a particular mabari. “I’d hate to waste such a promising member of the breed.” He looked up as Blair approached. “Are you one of the new Wardens? I could use your help.”

 

“I don’t know anything about dogs,” she told him.

 

“It’s not what you know so much as what you are, really. This a mabari. Smart breed and strong. His owner died in the last battle and the poor hound swallowed darkspawn blood. I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled first.”

 

“Just how smart is this dog?” Blair asked, remembering Conrí giving orders to his own Mabari.

 

“Centuries ago, a mage bred them to be smart and understand what they’re told. They can remember and carry out complex orders. Most valuable dogs in the world. Trouble is they generally imprint on one master; re-imprinting them is very difficult. But without the medicine, re-imprinting won’t be an issue. Will you help?”

 

“Could he be imprinted on me?”

 

“We can try. But first I need to muzzle and medicate him.”

 

“Why do you think I could muzzle him?” Blair asked as she looked in on the brindle colored dog. The mabari looked very large, easily coming up to her shoulder.

 

“You’re a Warden, or soon will be. All Wardens are immune to the darkspawn taint. The most you have to worry about is some tooth marks.”

 

Blair sighed. “I’ll give it a shot.”

 

The Kennel Master smiled. “Go in the pen and let him smell you. We’ll know right away if he’ll respond. Let’s hope this works. I would really hate to have to put him down.”

 

Blair went into the kennel and the man handed her a cloth muzzle. The brindle mabari backed down from his aggressive stance. There was intelligence in his curious eyes as well as a great deal of pain. “Oh, you poor thing…” Blair scratched his ears and he rumbled appreciatively. “I’m sorry, but I have to put this on you. The big human outside has some medicine that will help with your pain. But we can’t have you biting at him, you know?” the mabari whimpered but didn’t challenge Blair as she slipped the cloth over his muzzle. “I’m sorry, big fellow…”

 

“Well done!” Blair looked up to see Conrí standing near the pen with a smile on his face.

 

“Aye, now I can treat the dog properly, poor fellow,” the Kennel Master slipped into the pen behind Blair. “Come to think of it, are you heading into the Wilds any time soon?”

 

“Um… I might be….?” Blair mumbled, looking to Conrí. 

 

“I believe the recruits are, yes,” Conrí nodded.

 

“There’s a particular herb I could use to improve the dog’s chances. It’s a flower that grows in the swamps here, if I remember. If you happen across it, I could use it. It’s very distinctive; all white with a blood-red center.”

 

“Will he be alright without it?” Blair asked.

 

“If he doesn’t get it, chances are he’ll need to be put down.”

 

Blair’s eyes widened in near-panic. “Where in the Wilds would I find this flower?”

 

“It usually grows in dead wood at the edge of ground pools. There should be plenty this time of year.”

 

“I’ll see if I can find one,” Blair promised.

 

“Good. In the meantime, I’ll begin treating our poor friend.”

 

Blair looked back worriedly as Conrí led her to the Warden’s tent. “If all goes well, you might have yourself a mabari,” Conrí commented.

 

“Huh? You think so?”

 

“Aye. That big fella had all the signs of imprinting. He didn’t snap or so much as growl at you. Add that to the fact, he didn’t move to attack while suffering from darkspawn taint. I think you have a good shot of that dog imprinting on you.”

 

Blair was quiet for a long moment. “Well, let’s just get that herb for him first.”

 

Conrí nodded as they came to the tent. Alistair was already there with the other recruits.  
  
Koun gave a loud bark as he saw his master approach and loped over, licking Conrí’s hand as he got close to the dog. Duncan nodded as he saw who approached. “Good, you are all here. I’ll assume you’re ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course, Alistair, that you’re quite finished riling up mages!” the old Warden turned on his younger compatriot, glowering down at him with an expression that reminded Tira of Marethari chiding her as a girl for her youthful indiscretions. Alistair’s look of chastened discomfort reminded Tira so much of herself in that situation she had to suppress a snigger.

 

“What can I say? The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army” Alistair protested, earning a deeper scowl and a raised eyebrow from Duncan. 

 

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair; we do not need to give anyone more ammunition against us”

 

“You’re right, Duncan. I apologize” Alistair replied with a chastised nod. 

 

Duncan sighed and then turned back to the recruits. “Well, since you’re all here, we can begin. You all will be heading into the Korcari Wilds, to obtain seven vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”

 

“Darkspawn blood!” Tira asked, incredulous. One of the things she remembered from the briefing she’d walked into was that darkspawn blood was a powerful toxin more lethal than any man-made poison. So much as touching it was said to lead to instant death, or worse weeks of agonizing madness, followed by death. “What do we need darkspawn blood for?”

 

“For the Joining itself. I will explain more when you return” was Duncan’s terse reply. 

 

This did little to allay the others’ curiosity, but the Tristan had to admit, he did feel a sense of eager anticipation at the thought of combat. He gave a grin and murmured “Finally, some action!” 

 

Duncan chuckled at this and replied with a small grin. “Indeed. Darkspawn are not renowned for their willingness to surrender their blood!” At this, Duncan handed over seven glass phials to Alistair.

 

“And what is the second task?” Daveth enquired. 

 

“There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind magically sealed to protect them.” Duncan turned to his young underling, “Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

 

“What kind of scrolls are these?” Serena asked.

 

“Old treaties, if you’re curious. Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago,” Duncan replied, surprised the young dwarf would show curiosity. “They were once considered only formalities. With so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with.”

 

“And what if they’re no longer there?” Blair’s brow creased. “We could be chasing a needle in a haystack; hardly advisable in a dense forest overrun by darkspawn, you’ll agree?”

 

“It’s possible the scrolls may have been destroyed or even stolen, though the seal’s magic should have protected them. Only a Grey Warden can break such a seal.”

 

Alistair piped up at this point, his face uncertain, “I don’t understand...why leave such things in a ruin if they’re so valuable?”

 

Duncan sighed in regret. “It was assumed we would someday return. A great many things were assumed that have not held true.”

 

“So how will we find this archive?” Tira asked.

 

“It will be an overgrown ruin by now, but the sealed chest should remain intact. Alistair will guide you to the area you need to search. I will be giving him a map of the area in the Wilds where you are going.” Duncan shrugged, “Granted, the map is as old as the chest, but it should get you there.”

 

“Is this part of our Joining too?” Garik questioned.

 

Duncan shook his head “No, but the effort must be made. I have every confidence you are up to the task.”

 

“Find the archive and seven vials of black blood from the vilest beasts ever to walk the face of Thedas. It will be done with all haste, milord,” Garik replied with glib sarcasm. 

 

Duncan raised an eyebrow, and then turned to Alistair. “Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely.”

 

“We will,” was Alistair’s terse reply.

 

“Wait!” Erin trotted up to the tent. “Take me with you.”

 

“Erin, what are you doing here?” Conrí asked. 

 

“I want to join the Wardens, brother,” Erin said as she came to a stop. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”

 

“Sister, Duncan and I both swore to Father that--,”

 

“I know. I made no such promise. And you only swore not to conscript me. I’m joining of my own volition.” 

 

“Erin… the Joining is dangerous…”

 

“I understand that. My mind hasn’t changed.”

 

“But…”

 

“Conrí…” Erin said softly. “I know you want to protect me… but this is my choice. And you’ll need me. Please. Don’t fight me on this.”

 

“Erin… being a Grey Warden isn’t something you can leave once this is all over. This is for life. There is no leaving. Even if you run, you’ll always find yourself among more Wardens, or in the Deep Roads fighting darkspawn. It’s nothing like the stories Nan told us as children.”

 

“I know that. Real life is never like the stories. But my mind still hasn’t changed. This way, I can be more in this life than the wife of some stuffy noble. I’m as much a warrior as you. And Fereldan needs me.”

 

Conrí sighed after a long moment. “Duncan, give Alistair one more vial. Seems you’re getting what you want.” Duncan nodded solemnly and handed Alistair another glass vial. “Be careful sister. Once you return… there is no going back.”

 

“I know,” Erin hugged her brother before turning to Alistair with a nod. With that, the group gathered up their weapons and supplies, made for the gate that led down to the main army camp in the valley, taking ten minutes to wend their way down the winding path to the base of the valley. From there, it was across the plain between the valley and the woods, and then into the depths of the Korcari Wilds.

 


	9. Wolves, Darkspawn and Witches, Oh My!

 

The group had barely gotten a mile into the forest before they were attacked. A pack of wolves, either starving or crazed by the Blight, charged from the underbrush but were quickly cut down by Daveth and Tira’s master archery and Tristan’s spells. Those that managed to avoid the deadly missiles were dispatched by Alistair, Jory, Erin, Garik, Serena and Blair. 

 

Tira held up her hand as another wolf crept from the brush. “Wait…” The wolf eyed the group before loping forward. When the beast was within ten feet of Tira, it charged, leaping at the elf. Everyone seized their weapons… only to realize the wolf was licking Tira’s face happily. “Tsume! Oh it’s so good to see you, lethallan!”

 

“You… know this wolf, Tira?” Erin asked as she lowered her swords.

 

“Yes!” Tira laughed as she pushed the wolf off. “I found her as a cub a year ago. We think her mother was killed by the hunters. When I left the clan, I asked Merrill to look after her. I was worried because she sent me a messenger hawk about a week ago that Tsume had run off.”

 

“She followed you all the way here?” Garik asked, his voice awed.

 

“She must have. I’ve missed you so much, my friend,” Tira said embracing the wolf, who happily licked her ear, rubbing up against the Dalish archer. Tsume began to whine as she noticed an off scent about Tira. “Yes… I am sick, lethallan. That’s why I’m here. The Grey Wardens say they can help me. Come. An extra set of teeth is always helpful and we have many darkspawn to mow down.” 

 

Tsume barked in agreement, falling into step beside Tira as the group continued into the Wilds but not before Daveth and Garik quickly skinned the pelts from the fallen wolves. Daveth said that the quartermaster was paying well for furs that he could sell for capes or blankets to soldiers who needed some extra warmth sleeping in a tent on a cold night in the wilderness.

 

Further on, they came across the corpse of a Chantry missionary lying face-down in a pool of brackish marsh water; obviously a victim the wolves had already claimed. They recovered a letter indicating the man had hidden a cache of supplies somewhere in the Wilds, then continued along the path…and came upon the site of a bloody massacre.

 

A pair of wagons lay overturned on their sides, the oxen that had been pulling them lying dead on their sides, bearing vicious wounds. Huge strips of meat and even some limbs had been torn off the animals; the darkspawn must have taken the meat as a prize. Bodies of men, clad in chainmail and the emblems of various banns and Arls, or in leather armor with braided hair marking them as Chasind refugees or mercenaries, lay scattered about where they had died. Many of them hadn’t even managed to draw their weapons before they’d been cut down. These poor bastards were taken completely by surprise Erin knew.

 

Suddenly, she heard a gasp of agony and saw one of them, a thin, young man in chainmail, thrash weakly on the ground.. As they approached, Erin could see something had slashed his side with long claws, and the man was clutching his stomach, where a small, circular, but deep wound had been made. The recruits heard Alistair mutter the word “Shriek…” under his breath, but didn’t know what to make of it.

 

Erin went over to the man, wondering and dreading that he might be one of the Highever patrol, but to her relief she saw the fellow was from West Hills, not Highever. The wounded man looked up as he realized he was not alone. “Who is that?” he called. For a moment, Erin saw a look of fear on his face. No doubt he thinks the darkspawn have come back to finish him off! Erin thought. The dread turned to relief as he saw the interlopers were fellow soldiers. His head tilted slightly in Alistair’s direction, “Grey...Wardens?”

 

“Well, he’s not half as dead as he looks.” Alistair remarked.

 

The soldier groaned again, “My scouting patrol, we were attacked by darkspawn. They came out of the ground…” The guard’s pale face grimaced in pain as he struggled to raise himself up. “Please, help me! I need to get back to camp!”

 

“Let’s at least try to patch him up” Serena suggested. 

 

“Move,” Tristan shoved Jory aside and knelt next to the wounded soldier. A bright blue light shined from his hands and the gashes began to mend themselves. 

It took only a few moments, and then Erin and Alistair helped the wounded man to his feet, who muttered his thanks and began to hobble off in the direction of the camp. 

 

The second the fellow was out of earshot, Ser Jory piped up, his voice so high anyone would think he was singing a soprano. “Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!” His eyes uneasily flicked from tree to tree, as if expecting darkspawn to come out from hiding behind them any second.

 

Alistair spoke in a placating tone before the Redcliffe knight could continue. “Calm down, Ser Jory. We’ll be fine if we’re careful.”

 

Jory however wasn’t calmed, “Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the lot of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire army in these forests!”

 

Again, Alistair toned his voice to be soothing, though Erin caught the barest hint of annoyance. The woman had to agree with the Warden. Surely his whining is more likely to attract the darkspawn’s attention than our footsteps! “There are darkspawn about, but we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde.”

 

“How do you know? I’m not a coward, but…” At this, Tristan hid a snort in a poorly disguised cough, while Serena raised an eyebrow. Ser Jory was fortunately preoccupied with trying not to soil his armor to notice their reactions. “But this is foolish and reckless. We should go back!”

 

Alistair let out an exasperated sigh and placed an exasperated hand on his brow. Erin tried to talk the man down, relying on her infamous silver tongue to reassure the unnerved man. “Overcoming these dangers is part of our test.”

 

Jory looked round at Erin with a simple look on his face, “That’s...true.”

 

Alistair nodded gratefully at Erin, before looking them all squarely in the eye as he addressed them. “Know this. All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here.”

 

Daveth favored Jory with a wry grin. “You see, ser knight? We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first!”

 

Alistair groaned covering his face with his hand, while the knight squinted at Daveth. “That is...reassuring?”

 

“That doesn’t mean I’m here to make this easy, however” Alistair pointed out. “So let’s get a move on.”

 

And so they continued deeper into the Wilds, seeking out their quarry. Soon, Tira spotted something near a pool of water. “Blair!” she called headed over. Growing from a cluster of dead wood on the water’s edge was a bunch of small white flowers with a red center. “Are these the flowers you mentioned earlier?”

 

“Yes, that’s the one!” Blair eagerly picked a small handful. “Here,” she said, handing a few to Tira. “If Tsume is going to help us, you’d better hang onto a few.”

 

“Good idea. Ma serannas, lethallan,”

 

Blair looked at Tira quizzically. “I don’t mean to sound like an uneducated bumpkin, but what does that mean?”

 

“Oh,” Tira giggled. “I’m sorry. It means, ‘Thank you, my friend.’”

 

“I thought lethallin meant friend.”

 

“It does, but when you are referring to a male. Lethallan is a female friend.”

 

“Oh, okay,” Blair blushed slightly. “Would you mind teaching me more of the elven speech?” 

 

“I’d be happy too,” Tira chuckled as they resumed walking through the woods. “You remind me a lot of my friend Merrill.”

 

“I do?”

 

“Yes. You blush so easily and you ramble so adorably,” Tira laughed.

 

Blair blushed again. “Uh, I’m flattered, but I think you might be getting the wrong idea about me…”

 

“Oh, I know you’re only interested in men,” said Tira glibly. Blair blushed even more fiercely. “And you’re a virgin as well? Look at that blush!”

 

“What?! How is that any of your business?!”

 

Tira giggled. “Calm down, my friend, I only tease.”

 

Blair sighed as her ears slowly returned to their normal color. “So who is Merrill?”

 

“She’s Keeper Marethari’s First. I think you would call her an apprentice or heir. Both are accurate I suppose.”

 

“Is Merrill Marethari’s daughter?” Erin asked as she joined the pair of elves.

 

“Oh no. She came to our clan at the last Arlathvhen, the gathering of the clans. The Alerion out of Nevarra had many talented mages already so Merrill came to us to be trained as Marethari’s first.”

 

“Marethari and Merrill are mages?” Erin asked, surprise coloring her tone.

 

Tira eyed Erin warily, aware of the Chantry’s stance on mages. “Yes. All Keepers and their Firsts are mages. Is that a problem?”

 

“No, no, I didn’t mean it that way!” Erin exclaimed. “I’ve no problem with mages. I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend.”

 

“It’s alright. I’m just... wary of Templars hunting Keepers because of what they are.”

 

“If it makes you feel any better, you and Conrí will get along famously,” Alistair quipped. “For a month after I was recruited, all Conrí did was glare at me. I thought at first it was because he was a noble who looked down on me for my birth. But no. He hates Templars.”

 

“With good reason,” Erin said, her tone hard. “He saw how badly Templars treat mages. Hell, one of our friends since childhood was hauled off to the Circle. The boy didn’t fight and neither did his parents, but the Templars still beat the living daylights out of them both! We still don’t know if Anders is even alive!”

 

“Anders?” Tristan asked, gob smacked. “Anders is alive as far as I know. Though he does have the record of most failed escapes from the Circle. Last I heard, he’d booked it not long before I left.”

 

Erin looked relieved. “Good… That’s one thing from our past Conrí and I can put to rest.”

 

However, as they came to a bridge crossing a deep river with no other visible crossing points, they realized why the darkspawn had been so willing to fall back easily; they’d been driving the group towards this point. A large force of darkspawn was gathered on the far side of the bridge. He could make out about five Genlock archers, along with a half dozen other darkspawn. These creatures were much taller than their Genlock counterparts, on a par in height with Jory, their tall, powerful bodies covered in crude armor likely taken from the corpses of those they’d killed. 

 

Twenty two malevolent eyes glared at the four of them; the eyes made the creatures look like old men with cataracts, but the group had no doubt the darkspawn could see them, if the fact their eyes were narrowed in almost feral hate was any evidence. The creatures hissed and snarled at the group, working themselves into a killing frenzy, but not attacking…yet. “If we can kill the Hurlocks, the big ones!” Erin heard Alistair whisper. “We might be able to scatter the Genlocks, but we’ll have to hit them hard and fast…!” 

 

Suddenly, a strange figure pushed its way to the front of the darkspawn pack. Erin and the others took a step back in surprise; this creature was much different in appearance from the others. In size and appearance, it resembled the Hurlocks, but instead of armor, its thin body was wrapped in a dirty grey robe and its clawed fists were closed around the shaft of a metal staff festooned with bones and dried blood. The top portion of its bald skull was wrapped in filthy bandages and a crown of feathery spines stood erect at the back of its head. The creature looked at them and hissed a challenge, baring a mouth full of yellow fangs, and then clenched one of its fists. Its meaning was clear as its Hurlock underlings gave a shriek of what sounded almost like delight and broke into a run.

 

Daveth, Tira and Jory quickly notched arrows to their bows and loosed them as Alistair shot a bolt from his crossbow. Two Hurlocks went down with arrows buried in their bald skulls, while a third fell to one knee, clutching a crossbow bolt in its chest. The crested darkspawn hissed in annoyance and spread its arms wide; with a feeling this could mean no good, Erin shouted “That one’s the leader: kill him and we break the others! Daveth, Jory, hold them up! Alistair, with me!”

 

Jory, roaring like a bull, his earlier unease forgotten, strode into the midst of the Hurlocks, wielding his sword like a scythe as he slashed it across one monster’s mid-section, then impaled a second through the neck. Daveth cast aside his bow and drew his daggers as one darkspawn tried to hit Jory over the head from behind with a mace, driving one dagger into the brute’s chest, and then beheading it with the other. 

 

Garik and Serena were back to back, slaughtering Genlocks and Hurlocks alike. Darkspawn met their end at the point of Garik’s daggers, or the edge of Serena’s axe. At one point, Garik took the axe he’d stolen from Beraht from his belt and hurled it at one of the larger Hurlocks, the it embedding itself in the beast’s skull. Serena, not to be outdone, tossed her shield like a disk, breaking the neck of a Hurlock facing away from her, before using its prone form as a step up to launch herself higher and come down to split another ‘spawn’s head with her axe. She quickly retrieved her shield and fell back to stand with Garik.

 

Blair impressed everyone with her speed and alarming ferocity. Unlike Garik, who preferred daggers held in a reverse grip and slashing, Blair fought with her blade forward between her fingers. She leapt over the swords of a pair of Hurlocks and when she landed she kicked one in the knee before stabbing the second in the chest. Quickly she returned to the first with a flurry of three strikes before alternating another three between her targets, using the far hand for both sides.

 

Erin cut through her opponents with such efficiency, she was already swinging for her next foe before the first had hit the ground. She removed a Hurlocks arm before finishing it with a swift stab to the heart. A second charged to take the first’s place, but was crippled by a single swing that took off its leg below the knee. It fell to its knees with a hiss before Erin who crossed her blades at its throat before scissoring them, slicing through flesh and bone with alarming ease.

 

The crested darkspawn shrieked in anger and gestured to the Genlocks behind it; at this, they drew knives and clubs and began to charge at the oncoming Alistair and Erin. Alistair blocked a Genlock’s stabbing knife with the stock of his crossbow, and then shouldered the thing to the floor. Before it could get back up, Alistair put a bolt point-blank into the creature’s chest. The Genlock shrieked like a stuck pig as the iron tip punched into its heart. Two more Genlocks charged Alistair, who drew his sword and shield and made to fend them off.

 

Erin, meanwhile, kicked another to the floor and finished it off without breaking stride, her eyes set on the crested Hurlock. The beast bared its fangs in challenge and raised its staff above its head. She saw flashes of energy playing across the palm of its left, coalescing into a ball of lightning that the Hurlock then threw at Erin. 

 

Magic! Erin wondered as she leapt aside and the lightning blasted the ground where she’d been. How!? It had been her understanding that darkspawn were little more than animals; surely they shouldn’t have had the skill or even intelligence to use magic like a mage? And yet what had just happened said otherwise. Still, I’ve fought mages before, and if this creature’s anything like them, it should need time to recover its power… 

 

But to her horror, she could see the darkspawn was clearly preparing another spell with incredible swiftness: the palms of both its hands crackled with magically-spawned flames that it was aiming at Alistair, who had his back to the creature, his blade locked with a Genlock’s axe. Suddenly, an arrow from Tira struck the Hurlock mage in its shoulder, distracting it enough for Erin to charge in. She swung her sword pommel into the monster’s gut and as it staggered, wrenched its staff from its grip and snapped it underfoot. As the monster tried to regain its breath, Erin stabbed out with the Cousland sword and drove it straight through the Hurlock’s chest. The monster shrieked in pain-crazed rage, a sound that caught the attention of its minions and the other men.

 

But as Erin was about to pull the sword free, the darkspawn seized her wrist and hissed through clenched fangs “You-die-with-me, scum!” Erin nearly dropped her sword in shock: seeing darkspawn that could wield magic was one thing, but one thing she’d been sure of was that darkspawn would be incapable of human speech. The shock of realizing just how wrong she was overwhelmed her so much that she failed to notice the entropic power gathering in the dying Hurlock’s hands until it was too late. Before Erin could react to either get away or finish the creature off before it could act, the power in the Hurlock’s hands coalesced into a glowing orb of fire that flew from its palm and blasted Erin full in the chest. Both woman and darkspawn were sent flying in opposite directions: the Hurlock flew through the air, ending up impaled on the sharpened branches of a dead tree. Erin was sent crashing to the ground, cracking her head hard on a rock as she landed, bounced and then crashed into the water. She heard distant voices calling her name…then saw darkness, then nothing.

 

* * *

 

As consciousness returned to her, Erin was lying on her back under the wolf furs the others had skinned earlier. She tried to sit up, and winced in sudden pain as fiery agony seared through her side. The woman reached beneath the blankets she was covered by, and saw her bare chest was wrapped with bandages. More than slightly perturbed as to how they got there, she peeled them back slightly, and saw several dark burns on her flesh. Erin reached up to her brow and winced as she felt more bandages wrapped around her skull.

 

Suddenly, she heard a laugh and saw Daveth looking over her, grinning “Good to see you, ya crazy wench! We thought you were a goner for sure! Oi, Alistair, our mage-killer is awake! Tristan, time for you to work that voodoo bit of yours.”

 

“Where are we?” Erin asked as she spied Tira, Blair Garik and Serena crowded around the campsite.

 

“In a secluded grove in the Korcari Wilds, whiling the night away. When that darkspawn mage took you out, we didn’t know what to do. The beasts lit out of here as soon as they saw their leader skewer himself on that tree, but we were at a loss what to do with you. We had to get you away, but we’re too far from the camp to have gone back, and you needed treatment fast. So we stopped just long enough to scoop up some blood into those phials Duncan gave us, then found somewhere quiet to treat you. By then, the sun was going down and Alistair said it was too risky to keep going in the dark, but he says we’re only a few miles short of the tower: once we’re sure you’re up to carrying on, he’s says we’ll continue onwards in the morning.” Daveth finished.

 

She heard armored footsteps approaching and saw Alistair approach from behind the rogue. “Good to see you’re alive, my friend: if you’d bit it, Conrí would have had my tender regions mashed on an anvil…for a start! Go easy though, try not to overexert yourself; I’d say you’re still quite weak. The emissary did a lot of damage!”

 

“Emissary?” Erin asked as she sat up gingerly, the term unfamiliar to her. Tristan walked around and sat behind her, his magic already going to work on Erin’s injuries.

 

“The magic-wielding darkspawn that blasted you. They’re the only ones of the horde smart enough to make use of it.”

 

Erin’s eyes widened in shock. “My swords!” she cried. 

 

“Right here, salroka,” said Garik, making his way over to her, carrying her weapons. She yanked the Cousland blade from its sheath ignoring the pain shooting through her side. The blade was a bit scorched, but otherwise undamaged. “Took the liberty of getting the ‘spawns blood off them for ya.”

 

“Thank you Garik,” Erin whispered as she pressed her forehead against the flat of the blade. It was the only thing that she still retained of her family. She could still hear her mother’s voice as she drew this sword for the first time. That blade cannot fall into Howe’s hands; it should sever his treacherous head! 

 

“It will, Mother… I swear…” she returned the blade to its scabbard and set the pair of swords next to her.

 

“Daveth!” Alistair snapped. “Get Erin some food; she needs to eat if she’s going to get her strength back!” 

 

Daveth scowled but obeyed, returning with a piping hot bowl of what looked to be stew, which he had set down by Erin, who took it and gingerly began eating. It was quite good: she could taste fish and another meat. “What is it?”

 

“Salmon and rabbit stew” Alistair replied. “That emissary’s fire ball blasted a number of fish out of the water, and we found a good many rabbits in this clearing, which we caught a few of after making sure you were alright.” Erin nodded and tucked in with wild abandon, swiftly gorging herself on the fine fare, feeling hot stew trickle down her lower jaw as she rapidly spooned it down.

 

At that moment, Ser Jory reappeared with a large bundle of firewood in his thick arms. “Build a small fire” Alistair ordered. “We don’t want to attract any unwanted attention.” As Jory dropped the bundle and began to create a spark by rubbing two pieces of flint together, Erin decided to break the silence, by getting to know her comrades-in-arms. “So, Ser Jory, you said you were from Redcliffe?”

 

The knight looked round at her and nodded. “I hail from Redcliffe, but I was recruited by Duncan in Highever, a city off the northern coast,” Jory gave a wistful homesick smile which reminded Erin about her own feelings about Highever. “Have you travelled there?”

 

“I…” Erin sighed. There was no point in dancing around it: they’d find out soon enough. “My father was the lord of that city.” 

 

Jory did a double-take, then leapt to his feet and gave a full bow. “My Lady Cousland, I am honored!” 

 

“So what did you do to get sent out here?” Daveth questioned. Serena flicked his ear, much as she did frequently with Garik.

 

“That…is a story for another time, when I am more inclined to tell it. Please, continue Ser Jory,” Erin bluntly replied.

 

“I was in Arl Eamon’s retinue when he attended King Maric’s funeral. It was at Highever that I met my Helena,” Jory’s face took on a wistful, faraway look of joyful desire. “I was smitten. She has the most beautiful eyes, my Helena. For years I found any excuse to return there. We married a year ago.”

 

“Congratulations” Erin replied without any real feeling. 

 

Jory, either not noticing or ignoring, nodded and carried on “Arl Eamon gave me leave to serve Highever, but I was attempting to persuade Helena to return to Redcliffe with me. Or at least, I was until Duncan recruited me.” The knight shrugged solemnly “Last month, Duncan visited Redcliffe while I was there with my Helena, and one of the local banns held a tournament there in his honor. I won the grand melee.”

 

“So you abandoned her?” Tristan sniped, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Never! I will return to her once my duty is done and the Blight defeated. It was hard to leave my wife. We married only a year ago, and she is heavy with child now. But...Ferelden needs my blade, I shall not falter.”

 

“So, what do you think of Duncan?” Garik asked. Personally, he saw Conrí as the better leader, but then again, he hadn’t seen Duncan work much.

 

Jory considered the question thoughtfully, his scowl becoming a grimace of contemplation before he stated “He has a seemingly impossible task, with a scarce handful of Grey Wardens. Yet he does not complain or flinch from his duty.” Ser Jory shrugged, “We should find those documents as soon as we can. Although if they were so important, why leave them out here?”

 

“As Duncan said,” Alistair grimaced. “They always expected to return for them. But even the best-laid plans can go awry. What matters is that we are here now and we will retrieve them from this place...provided our comrade’s taste for heroics doesn’t get her killed next time!”

 

Guiltily looking away, Erin turned to Daveth and asked “What about you, Daveth? What’s your story?”

 

“Ha!” the rogue laughed. “You just want to get the attention off of you. But if you’re interested, I’ll tell you; I grew up in a village ‘bout a day’s trip to the east. Little blot you wouldn’t even find on a map.” The rogue pulled a face at the memory and continued “I haven’t been back in years. I struck out for the city as soon as I could outrun my pa. He and I never really got along after my dear old mum passed into the Maker’s hands one winter. I’ve been in Denerim for what...six years now? Never liked it much, but there’s more purses there than anywhere else.” He gave a rueful grin.

 

Serena grinned, raising an eyebrow. “So, you’re a cutpurse.”

 

Daveth shook with laughter, “..and a pickpocket, thank you very much! Or I was, anyhow. Who’d ever guess I’d end up a Grey Warden?”

 

“So how did that happen? How did the Grey Wardens find you?” Tira asked.

 

“I found them. With the soldiers leaving Denerim for Ostagar, and all the crowds waving and cheering them goodbye...it was too much to resist. I cut Duncan’s purse while he was standing in a crowd.” Daveth sniggered, “He grabbed my wrist, but I squirmed out and bolted. The old bugger can run,” Daveth joked, ignoring the glower of disapproval Alistair threw at him. “But the garrison caught me first. I’m a wanted man in Denerim, you see, so the city garrison were going to string me up right there.”

 

“And what happened then? How’d you get out of that one?” Garik asked, taking a liking to Daveth. As Garik put it, the Wardens seemed to have a taste for street rats.

 

“Duncan stopped them. Invoked the Right of Conscription, he did. I gave the garrison the finger while I was walking away.” Daveth shrugged with a gleeful expression on his face, “Don’t know why Duncan wants someone like me. But he says finesse is important, and that I’m fast with a blade...You bet your boots I am. Besides, it beats getting strung up.” .

 

“I won’t argue with you there!” Blair nodded “So, what do you think of Duncan?”

 

“He’s all right for an old bugger.” Alistair again gave the rogue a cold glare but said nothing “He’s faster than he looks too. And I’m grateful to him for his saving my ass from a short drop and a sudden stop, and his faith in little old me and my potential. Well, you heard the same speech I did. Still, I’ve never heard of a tower that stood for more than ten years in this forest…” he mused.

 

“Alright, that’s enough chatter,” Alistair cut across them. “Erin, get some rest. The rest of you, try and get some yourself but keep an eye on her. I’ll take the first watch and change at midnight.” Erin nodded and collapsed back to the ground. 

 

* * *

 

They woke early, but it was mid-afternoon by the time Erin felt strong enough to move again. Magic or not, the healing took a lot of energy. The ruined tower of the archive lay directly ahead of them, but it took them a little under two hours to get there: Erin had to go slow on account of the fact she was still quite weakened by the emissary’s fire spell, and the others were forced to slow their pace to compensate. As the hours passed, and the sun sunk lower and lower in the heavens, the tower drew closer and closer, until they came to a steep hill atop which the tower sat. Swiftly, they began to make their way up it, Erin even managing to jog lightly, buoyed up by the knowledge their quest was nearly at an end.

 

When they reached the tower’s entrance, they were attacked briefly by a small band of Hurlocks, but they managed to fend off the creatures, taking them down from a distance with arrows. The only real challenge had been a large darkspawn, a Hurlock far bigger than its kin, wielding a curved sword in its right hand and a notched dagger in its left, clad in far heavier armor and its head protected by an ornate, horned helm. It had taken three arrows to even slow the creature, and it had taken some blade work to put the hulking brute down: Jory had taken the glory of slaying the Hurlock, slamming his sword into its gut, then hacking the winded darkspawn down with a hefty blow that smashed the creature off its feet. In the battle’s aftermath, Alistair announced the larger darkspawn had been a Hurlock Alpha. Like the emissaries, the Alphas were smarter than the average darkspawn, acting as the captains of the horde, goading and bullying the darkspawn under their command into obeying the commands given to them by the will of the archdemon.

 

Quickly, they raced up a small flight of stairs into the ruined entrance hall of what had once been the tower. The chest they sought was to their left, heavily damaged but more or less intact. Directly ahead of them was a staircase that would have led to the tower’s upper floor, but the walls of the tower appeared to have crumbled under the pressure of erosion, time and the elements and the tower’s upper chambers had collapsed. 

 

Erin quickly staggered over to the chest, instructing the others to keep their eyes peeled for any signs of trouble. She bent down to the chest and pulled back the cracked remnants of the chest’s lid. There was nothing inside but a thin layer of wood dust; no scrolls, not even a hint of parchment. Erin slammed the lid down angrily. “Blood and spite! It’s empty!”

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” a haughty female voice sniffed. Erin whirled round, her hand flying towards the hilt of her sword, but to her surprise, she saw the interloper wasn’t what she expected.

 

Loping down the ramp from the ruined upper quarters of the tower in long strides, moving with almost feline grace was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. She looked to be about Erin’s age and was tall and slender, close to Erin in height, with elegantly long legs and delicate, long fingered hands. Her face possessed beauty that artists would sell their souls to capture, with jet-black hair tied back from a pretty face with a strong chin, high cheekbones and alabaster-pale skin that contrasted perfectly with her dark coils of hair. She was wearing a strange set of clothing: a torn and ragged purple vest that seemed to be for the purpose of exposing her ample chest rather than covering it, along with a pair of black leggings that clung to her limbs. Her right arm was bare; her left covered by a long velvet sleeve that covered from her shoulder to her wrist. Her unusual apparel was completed by the addition of various feathers, beads and precious stones and a simple necklace was wrapped around her neck, the gem at its centre dangling just above her cleavage, along with a long wooden staff clutched in her right hand. “Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey? Which is it? Scavenger, or intruder!” she snapped. 

 

Erin felt her hackles raise: she was quite tired of this wretch’s stuck-up attitude. I suffered enough of that at the hands of Ferelden’s women of high society and their air-head daughters; I’m not going to take it from this backwater wench who looks like she had a blight wolf for a tailor!’ “Intruder?” she snapped. “And just how exactly are these your Wilds!”

 

The woman gave a mirthful chuckle and said, “Because I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?” At this point, she stepped forward and began to circle the group, making Erin think uneasily of a cat circling a trapped mouse before going in for the kill. “I have watched your progress for some time” she intoned. “‘Where do they go?’ I wondered. ‘Why are they here?’ And now, you disturb ashes no one has touched for so long.” She stopped against a ruined wall of the tower’s entrance hall, leaning against the stone. “Why is that?”

 

“Don’t answer her” Erin heard Alistair snap. “She looks Chasind, and that means others could be nearby...”

 

The woman cut across him with a derisive snort, waving her arms in a mocking gesture of terror. “Oooh! You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” she shot at Alistair, the sarcasm almost dripping from her lips. 

 

“Yes, swooping is...bad.” Alistair answered, glowering at her.

 

At this point, Daveth cut in, and Erin was surprised to hear a note of fear in the rogue’s tone. “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She’ll turn us into toads!” Daveth quailed slightly as the woman fixed him with her raptor’s gaze. 

 

“Witch of the Wilds?” she questioned with a sigh. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own? You there!” she directed at Erin. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civil.” 

 

Erin was caught a little off guard, but rationalized her request as not unreasonable. Besides, I am the daughter of a teyrn, and I won’t have this woman thinking I’m the barbarian whore she clearly believes I am. With that, Erin clicked her heels, gave a full bow and answered. “My name is Erin. A pleasure to meet you.”

 

The woman’s eyebrows rose and her eyes widened with satisfaction; clearly she hadn’t been expecting such decency. “Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan. Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something which is here no longer?”

 

“Here no longer!” he heard Alistair snap angrily. “You stole them, didn’t you! You’re some kind of...sneaky...witch thief!” he angrily finished, glaring up at her. Erin pinched the bridge of her nose.

 

“How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men, I wonder?” Morrigan’s lip curled in amusement as she sneered down at Alistair.

 

“Quite easily it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them,” Alistair glared at her. 

 

Morrigan’s amused sneer hardened into a cold scowl of annoyance as she glared down at Alistair as though he were a cockroach she greatly longed to crush. “I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish: I am not threatened.” 

 

“Then do you know who took them?” Garik cut across them. He decided to take charge of the situation before Alistair provoked a fight. Morrigan looked at him and answered “T’was my mother, in fact.”

 

“Your...mother?” Garik answered, raising an eyebrow.

 

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed at this. “Yes, my mother,” she replied, annunciating every word as talking to someone deaf and stupid. “Did you assume I spawned from a log perhaps?”

 

Alistair coldly muttered under his breath “A thieving, weird-talking log.” Erin flicked his ear, taking a page from Serena’s book. 

 

Morrigan gave an exasperated sigh and leant against the stone wall, examining her nails as she answered, her facial expression saying she clearly found them more interesting than Alistair. “Not all in the Wilds are monsters. Flowers grow here, as well as toads.”

 

“Can you take us to your mother?” Tristan asked.

 

“There is a sensible request,” Morrigan smiled wickedly. “I like you.”

 

“I’d be careful,” Alistair mumbled. “First it’s ‘I like you,’ but then ZAP! Frog time.”

 

Daveth piped up again, yelping “She’ll put us in the pot she will. Just you watch!”

  
“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change!” Ser Jory chipped in as they followed Morrigan out of the ruins.

 


	10. The Joining and A War Council

 

The group stumbled out of the wilds a number of hours later. Morrigan had taken them to her mother and she indeed had the scrolls. But that’s not what unnerved Erin. What unnerved her was that the woman seemed to know everything about her. Things she had never told the group. She shivered and gripped her sword’s hilt tightly.

 

One welcome sight was her brother standing near the Grey Warden tent. He was wearing a set of studded leather armor, much to Erin’s surprise. Conrí smiled in relief when he saw her, but his brow quickly furrowed when he saw her walking gingerly. “Are you alright?” he asked.

 

“I’m fine,” Erin assured him. “Just a nasty run in with an Emissary.”

 

“Blast… I knew I should have gone with you…”

 

“It’s alright. Tristan patched me up. I’m just a little sore. Where’s your armor?”

 

“Ah, the quartermaster is replacing a few of the straps,” Conrí told her. “With all the fighting lately, they’ve taken some wear and tear.” His eyes turned to the large black and grey wolf that accompanied Tira. He knelt down, bringing himself to the wolf’s eye level. The wolf gave a low growl, but Conrí didn’t flinch or move an inch. Tsume’s ears pulled back and her hackles raised as her lips drew back to expose ivory white fangs. Still, Conrí made no move to flee. 

 

Tira began to get worried. “Tsume…” to her alarm the wolf lunged forward, barking fiercely. 

 

But Conrí still didn’t waver. After a tense moment, the wolf relaxed and loped forward, nuzzling and licking the underside of Conrí’s chin. Conrí scratched Tsume’s ears and rubbed her neck. When the warrior finally looked up, he noticed the looks of stunned disbelief on the recruits’ faces. “It’s an animal thing.”

 

“You’ve returned, I see,” Duncan spoke from behind the pair. “Have you been successful?”

 

“Not that it was easy,” Erin told him, a hand going instinctively to her still tender ribs. “But, yes.”

 

“Good,” Duncan nodded. “Wait… where is Blair?”

 

“At the kennels,” Tira told him, gesturing to the ash-blonde woman handing the Kennel Master the flower she had found. Duncan nodded, recognizing the herb.

 

“There was a woman at the tower, and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very...odd” Alistair informed Duncan. 

 

“Where they Wilder folk?” Duncan enquired, but Alistair shook his head. 

 

“I don’t think so. They might be apostates-mages hiding from the Chantry.”

 

“I know you were once a Templar, Alistair, but Chantry business is not ours. We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining.” With that, Duncan turned back to the recruits. “While you were away, I’ve had the Circle mages preparing: with the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

 

“Will you tell us now what this Joining Ritual entails?” Blair asked as she returned to the group. 

 

“I will not lie: we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree you pay your price sooner rather than later.” 

 

“You’re saying this ritual could...kill...us?” Garik asked, uneasy.

 

Duncan nodded grimly. “As could any darkspawn you face in battle. You would not have been chosen, however, if Conrí or I didn’t think you had a chance to survive.”

 

“Let’s go then. I’m anxious to see this Joining now,” Daveth replied, sounding resolute. 

 

“I agree; let’s have it done,” Jory added, though everyone heard a quavering note of uncertainty in the knight’s voice. 

 

Duncan nodded approvingly. “Then let us begin. Conrí, Alistair, take them to the old temple.”

 

* * *

 

“The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it” Jory muttered as he paced uneasily across the stone of the crumbling temple where Garik and Serena first met Alistair.

 

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth retorted, scowling.

 

“Why all these damn tests? Have I not earned my place?” Jory snapped back. 

 

Daveth shrugged. “Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you...!”

 

“Calm down, Ser Jory” Serena said in a placating tone “There’s nothing we can do about it now...” but the knight would not be calmed. 

 

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me...” he gave a weary sigh. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

 

“Would you have come if they had warned you?” Daveth demanded. “Maybe that’s why they don’t. The Wardens do what they must, right?” he looked to Conrí, who nodded silently.

 

“Including sacrificing us!” Jory near-enough shrieked.

 

Daveth scowled again, expression devoid of fear. “I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight.” 

 

Tira raised an eyebrow, impressed; she hadn’t expected the rogue to possess such wisdom and solemnity. “I must admit, you do make a good point, Daveth.” 

 

The Denerim rogue nodded at her and turned back to Jory. “You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn’t you die to protect your pretty wife from them?” 

 

“I…” Jory stuttered then sighed.

 

“Maybe you’ll die. Maybe we’ll all die. If no one stops the darkspawn, we’ll die for sure,” Daveth drilled at the knight.

 

“I’ve just never engaged a foe I could not defeat with my blade,” Jory grumbled. Garik and Tira shook their heads at the man’s cowardice.

 

Armored footsteps announced the presence of another entering the chapel. They looked up to see Duncan, carrying a large, ornate silver chalice in both hands.Around the body were engravings of griffons and dragons and as Duncan passed, Erin saw it was half-full with a strange, black liquid that stank of decay. 

 

Duncan set the chalice down on the remains of the chapel’s altar and turned to face them. “At last, we come to the Joining. The first Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood...and mastered their taint”

 

“We’re going to drink the blood of those...those creatures!” Jory asked, horrified.

 

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us. As we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory” was Duncan’s solemn reply. 

 

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint,” Alistair added. “We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.”

 

“Those who survive?” Blair asked, getting a bit uneasy herself.

 

Duncan turned to look her directly in the eye, and Blair saw a great deal of sorrow and regret in those dark eyes. “Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those who do are forever changed. It is the price we pay. We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, Conrí, if you would?”

 

The pair nodded, drawing their swords from their belts and resting them point down on the stone, gripping the pommels. “Join us, brothers and sisters,” they said in perfect unison. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you,” Erin spied Conrí watching her with a look of sorrow too ancient for his young eyes.

 

Duncan turned and picked the chalice up off the altar, holding it in both hands. “Daveth, step forward.”

 

Daveth strode forward and Duncan held out the chalice to him. Daveth took it and raised it to his lips, drinking down a small portion of the liquid within. Duncan took the chalice but as he did, Daveth staggered back, gasping in pain. The young rogue doubled over, one hand clutching his stomach, the other clawing at his head. A gut-wrenching scream poured from his mouth as he suddenly stood up and the others saw his eyes had rolled up in his head.

 

“Maker’s breath!” Jory gasped, the panic in his voice plain for all to hear.

 

As they watched in horror, Daveth collapsed to his hands and knees, one hand going to his throat as he choked and gasped for breath. Duncan gave a regretful sigh. “I am sorry, Daveth,” he murmured sadly. Daveth collapsed face-down on the floor, twitching weakly for a few more seconds, and then was still. He had failed the Joining. Duncan turned away from Daveth’s still form to face Jory. “Step forward, Jory.” 

 

However, the knight was backing away, terror on his face as he reached for the hilt of his sword at his back. “I have a wife, a child...had I known” he pleaded. 

 

Duncan’s face hardened, his eyes cold and unforgiving. “There is no turning back...” he answered in a flat voice devoid of pity or sympathy.

 

Jory shook his head. “No!” he cried. “You ask too much! There is no glory in this!” Duncan then drew a knife with a long, curved blade and advanced on Jory. The frightened knight, ready to lash out like a cornered beast, gave a snarl of anger and charged Duncan, swinging his sword, but the Warden parried his strike. Jory attacked again with a low slash, but Duncan blocked, knocked Jory’s sword from his hand and drove the knife deep into the side of Jory’s chest. Jory gasped in shock as he felt the weapon bite into his flesh. 

 

The recruits watched as the knight looked at Duncan, all seeing the regret in his eyes. “I am sorry.” With a groan, Jory collapsed to his knees, his hands weakly and vainly trying to staunch the blood flowing down in his side, but, as with Daveth, it was in vain, and Ser Jory collapsed in an ever expanding pool of his own blood. He too had failed the Joining. “But the Joining is not complete.” Tira stepped up, already feeling as if her insides were on fire. “You have been called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good.” 

 

“May the Creators smile on you, my friend,” Conrí rumbled. 

 

Tira nodded and drank from the chalice. The disgusting brew tasted as foul as it smelled, burning her throat as it went down. “From this moment on, you are a Grey Warden.”

 

Tira handed the foul concoction back to Duncan, just as the flickering flames in her belly erupted and spread to her head. It felt as if someone had poured molten metal into her skull and stomach. Like Daveth before her, she clutched at her abdomen and temples, crying out in anguish. But when she stood up straight with her eyes rolled back, she fell backwards. Alistair approached quickly, checking her pulse. “She lives,” he said with a slightly harried smile.

 

Duncan smiled slightly. “She will wake in time. Garik, step forward.”

 

Garik sighed and moved toward the man. “Stone accept you if you fall, brother,” Serena muttered, but Garik heard it.

 

“From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden,” Duncan intoned. 

 

One by one the recruits ingested the tainted swill and survived until, at last, it was Erin’s turn. Conrí gripped is sword tightly, his eyes haunted. Erin drank the blood, not hearing Duncan swearing her in. After she collapsed in agony, she dreamed…

 

* * *

 

She saw herself in the dark ruins of a city made from black stone. Overhead, she could hear the beating of leathery wings. She looked up and saw the sky was a foul, sickly green color and there was something above her; a gargantuan dragon, its scaly hide the reddish-black color of a charred corpse. Its eyes were milky-white like the darkspawn’s, seemingly blind, but Erin had no doubt the dragon could see her.

 

Its reptilian head swayed snake-like from side to side as it regarded her quizzically, as though trying to make sense of what she was. Its mouth opened wide, baring rows of dagger-sized teeth stained yellow with corruption and hissed a challenging snarl at her.

 

* * *

 

Erin’s eyes finally opened, seeing Duncan, Conrí and Alistair kneeling around her. “It is finished,” Duncan whispered. “Welcome.”

 

“Two more deaths,” Alistair sighed. “In our Joining, only one of us died, but it was horrible. I’m glad most of you made it through.”

 

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked as Conrí pulled Erin to her feet, gripping her shoulder with a smile.

 

“The pain... that was unbelievable!” Erin muttered, hearing her fellow recruits’ quiet agreement.

 

 “Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden. And now you all are.”

 

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair asked. “I had such terrible dreams after my Joining...” Alistair trailed off, shuddering. Conrí nodded, grimacing at the memory.

 

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as do we all.” Duncan said, his tone sympathetic. “Have no fear, that and many other things can be explained in the months to come. For now, we have others matters to attend to.”

 

“There is one last part to your Joining,” Conrí told the newest wardens, holding out several glass amulets in the shape of griffons. Looking closely at hers as she took it, Tira noticed there were droplets of black liquid in the glass. “We take some of the darkspawn blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us...of those who didn’t make it this far.”

 

“Take some time,” Duncan told them. “When you’re ready, I’d like you all accompany me to a meeting with the king.” 

 

“What kind of meeting?” Blair questioned.

 

“The king is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle. I am not sure why he’s requested your presence. The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able.”

 

* * *

 

As the group entered the hall some twenty minutes later, they saw a great wooden table before him, laid out with charts and maps sprawled in disorganized piles across it. Cailan was facing Loghain, and both men were talking in raised voices, and Erin could hear the frustration, strain and anger as neither refused to concede to the other’s point.

 

“Loghain, my decision is final!” Cailan snapped. “I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault!”

 

“You risk too much, Cailan!” Loghain protested, the exasperation in his voice indicating this was not the first time he and the king had this argument. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front line!” 

 

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should await the Orlesian forces after all.”

 

“I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!” Loghain growled.

 

“It is not a fool notion,” Cailan growled back. “Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past...and you will remember who is king!” 

 

Loghain pinched his brow in annoyance. “How fortunate Maric didn’t live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!” his armored hands clenched into fists, the metal creaking in protest.

 

“Well then, our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they!” Turning away from Loghain with a look of disgusted exasperation, Cailan turned to Duncan, “Are your men ready for battle?”

 

“They are, your Majesty!” Duncan nodded. 

 

“And the others I met on the road are here as well. I understand congratulations are in order.”

 

“Thank you, your Majesty, but I must admit, I don’t feel all that special...” Tira murmured uncertainly.

 

“Oh, but you are. Every Grey Warden is needed now more than ever. You should be honored to join their ranks!” 

 

“Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan!” Loghain snapped. “We must now attend to reality!” 

 

“Fine, speak your strategy!” Cailan gestured impatiently to the map directly in front of him; it was a map of the lands surrounding Ostagar. “The Grey Wardens and my army lure the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then...?”

 

“You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from ambush,” Loghain pointed to his location on the map.

 

Cailan seemed to agree with his general’s strategy. “Flanking the darkspawn. It’s good, I like it. This is the Tower of Ishal we’re talking about, in the ruins? Who will light this beacon?” the king enquired. 

 

Loghain waved a dismissive hand “I will have a few men stationed there. It won’t be a dangerous task, but it is vital.”

 

“Then we should send our best. Send Alistair, Blair, Garik and Erin to make sure it’s done! Conrí, Serena, Tira and Tristan will fight with their fellows.”

 

“You rely on these Grey Wardens too much, Cailan,” Loghain cut in. “Is that truly wise?” 

 

“My lord,” Conrí interrupted. “If I might speak?” Cailan nodded, gesturing for him to continue. “Wardens fight the darkspawn no matter where we are born. As you know, Teyrn Loghain, I was born a son of Highever, a scarce handful of years after the end of the Orlesian occupation. So as you might imagine, I have a particular interest in keeping the darkspawn from overrunning this country.”

 

“So I suppose you think we should wait for the Orlesians as well, young Cousland?” Loghain sneered.

 

“The Wardens, absolutely. But not the chevaliers,” Loghain’s eyes widened as Cailan frowned slightly. “As I said, I grew up on tales of the Occupation. The chevaliers would have no qualms about harassing farmer, noble and soldier alike. They would cause more problems than they would fix. And I don’t trust the Empress or her advisors as far as I could throw them. Wardens, in all reality, answer to no one. While the king has been more than reasonable with his requests of us, in the end, he has no true power over us. The same is true of the Orlesian Wardens. The Empress and the Divine have no control of them.”

 

“Then what do you suggest?” Loghain asked, more civilly, but still uneasy about trusting this young pup.

 

“Proceed with the battle as planned. If all goes well, we can buy enough time to put the treaties to use. I assume Duncan has filled you both in on their contents.”

 

Cailan nodded but Loghain frowned. “What treaties?”

 

“Duncan?” Conrí turned to his commander, who nodded and handed Conrí the scrolls who passed them to Loghain to peruse. “There are three main groups who have sworn aid to the Grey Wardens in times of Blight; the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar and the mages of the Circle. These are binding. No King, Emperor…” Conrí turned to stare hard at the Revered Mother sitting in on the meeting. “Nor member of the Chantry may interfere.” The elderly woman scowled.

 

Duncan wisely chose to change the subject. “Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing...”

 

“There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds,” Loghain informed Cailan, who nodded and looked back to Duncan. 

 

“Isn’t that what your men are here for? In case the beast rears its ugly head?” Duncan, caught off guard, reluctantly bowed to the king’s logic and nodded. 

 

At this point, the shifty-looking bald mage piped up, addressing Cailan. “Your Majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi can...”

 

Whatever offers the mage was about to make was never heard, as the Revered Mother got to her feet and angrily cut across him. “We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage. Save them for the darkspawn!”

 

“Since when has there been a we?” Conrí muttered darkly. “The Chantry doesn’t give one wit about anyone. Can’t even spare a few Templars…”

 

“Enough,” Loghain snapped, tiring of the debate between mage and priest. “This plan will suffice, Cailan. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon!” he finished, gesturing to the recruits and Duncan. “And if all goes well, tomorrow we will send a few Wardens around to these groups.”

 

Cailan nodded in thanks, a boyish grin of anticipation lighting up his handsome features. “Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil! Conrí, might I speak with you privately?”

 

“Of course,” Conrí agreed, following the King. 

 

“Gather your armor and weapons,” Duncan instructed the remaining Wardens. “We have much to do.”  
  
Not far, Cailan seemed to trip forcing Conrí to catch him. “Cailan, are you alright?” Loghain called. 

 

“Fine, just fine,” Cailan called with a wry chuckle. “Seems I shouldn’t have missed dinner. I hope the cooks don’t mind me dropping by.”

 

Duncan frowned before shaking his head and leading the others back to the Warden tent. Alistair was not pleased to hear he wouldn’t be in the battle.

 

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair,” Duncan told him.

 

“I get it, I get it,” Alistair grumbled. “Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

 

“I don’t know,” Erin giggled. “I think I might like to see that.”

 

“For you, maybe. But it’d have to be a pretty dress.”

 

Duncan sighed in exasperation. 

 

Conrí returned not long later, looking troubled. He called for Koun and the mabari happily loped to his master’s side. “Come on, boy. We need to get some kaddis.” Koun whined. “Yes, I know it stinks. But you’ll just have to deal with it.”

 

“Kaddis?” Serena asked. “What’s that?”

 

Conrí removed his leather cuirass and picked up a bowl of a red paste. “This is kaddis. It overpowers the scent of blood that would confuse the mabari. It also lets the mabari be sure who is on his side.”

 

“Ugh…” Serena winced. “I can see why…”

 

Conrí smirked and began painting his face, torso and arms with the smelly concoction and then did the same with Koun, who grumbled and whined at the smell. When he finished, an Ash Warrior approached Conrí, he and his mabari likewise painted with kaddis, though with a deep blue color. “Ah, Corvin,” Conrí greeted the man. “What can I do for you?”

 

“Well, we were about to perform the Siva Tau, and I was wondering if you would lead us,” Corvin told him.

 

Conrí seemed surprised. “Oh, of course. It would be an honor.” Corvin nodded with a smile and went back to his preparations. Conrí spied Serena watching him as he turned back. “What is it now, Serena?” he chuckled.

 

“Siva Tau?” she asked with a grimace. Humans, she thought.

 

Conrí smirked again. “You’ll see,” he said, walking, bare chested over to the group of Ash Warriors, men and women alike, who had formed a few lines about ten across. A small army of mabari sat at attention around the warriors. When Conrí and Koun made it to the front, he looked back at the Ash Warriors before bellowing in old Alamarri. The Ash Warriors answered with fervor. This was repeated before a number of Ash Warriors began beating on hide drums. At the beginning of the rhythm, Conrí and the Ash Warriors stomped and began chanting in Alamarri, slapping their chests, thighs and even the ground as they moved in what seemed almost like an odd dance. But none were fooled into thinking this was purely ceremonial. The feints to the side and backwards movements, reminiscent of a fighter evading an oncoming attack by pulling his weight onto his back leg, all in almost perfect unison, let onlookers know this was a dance of war. The mabari, in contrast to their masters, sat still as sentinels.

 

Even though the warriors were facing into the Valley, aiming their chants and threats at the darkspawn, the newest Wardens couldn’t help but feel a twinge of fear at the sight of their Lieutenant. The chanting and thrashing with his face painted with red kaddis and contorted into a fierce snarl was a stark contrast to his normally calm demeanor. Even the king and the teyrn stopped to watch, both in awe at the sight.

 

The Siva Tau began winding down, ending with Conrí bellowing one last threat in Alamarri. The hounds howled with him and the Ash Warriors began screaming unintelligibly. The small number of mages with them even blasted fire into the air. Conrí rolled his shoulders and made his way back to the others.

 

“That was quite the display, Lieutenant,” said a burly man with a thick beard as he helped Conrí strap on his true armor.

 

Conrí chuckled. “Quite a rush, Greigor.”

 

“I’m honestly relieved you and the Ash Warriors are on our side,” Erin chuckled. “That was… a bit unnerving.”

 

“That’s the point,” Conrí told her, rolling his wrist to make sure his gauntlet was on right. “But besides intimidation, there is a practical reason behind the Siva Tau. It gets the heart rate up and adrenaline flowing, making fighting that much easier.”

 

“Come on,” Alistair instructed the recruits with him. “We’d better get to the Tower and let the others get ready.”

 

 

 


	11. War at Ostagar

 

Alistair’s group moved quickly across the bridge as the army took their positions. Archers stood in a long line in front of the infantry with ballistae to their right, and the crowd of mabari stood to the left. Duncan and Conrí flanked Cailan as they made their way to the field. “The plan will work, your Majesty,” Duncan rumbled.

 

“Of course it will,” Cailan answered firmly. “The Blight ends here.”

 

“I hope you’re right, Cailan,” Conrí muttered as he and Koun took their places.

 

Thunder cracked and it began to rain. Hundreds of darkspawn stalked out of the forest amidst a heavy mist. At the centre of the horde’s front line a massive Hurlock, clad in fine, ornate plate armor that looked like it had once belonged to a Ferelden captain, now stained with dried blood and carved with obscene runes and sigils. Its bald skull was covered by a horned helm like the Alphas, though its helm was much more intricate, and in its hand was a twisted Greatsword. The way the other darkspawn shifted away from it with looks of fear made Conrí certain this creature was in control of the horde. A bloody Vanguard… great. This thing answers directly to the Archdemon. We have to kill it quickly.

 

The darkspawn started working themselves into a frenzy but made no move to attack. Do they suspect a trap? Erin wondered uneasily as she watched from the bridge. If they didn’t engage the main force, they might melt back into the Wilds or worse, find Loghain and his forces. The darkspawn had to be convinced to join battle with Cailan’s forces long enough for Loghain to turn the tables on the monsters.

 

The Hurlock general look up and down the length of its army then gestured emphatically with its sword.. With a screech of delight, the darkspawn in the front line broke into a run, followed swiftly by the lines behind them, all racing straight for the valley.

 

The Battle of Ostagar had begun. 

 

The horde quickly began crossing the plane at a sprint, all the while screaming battle cries and howling in bestial rage.

 

“ARCHERS!” Erin heard Cailan’s order even from high above. Looking down, she saw the companies of archers quickly light and nock arrows to the strings of their bows. A second voice shouted out and the archers loosed. A volley of flaming arrows flew into the rain-soaked night sky, followed by a second, and a third. Hundreds more darkspawn fell to the shafts; some killed by the shafts raining down, others as they were slowed by a minor wound from an arrow, then knocked aside by their kin charging from behind and trampled underfoot. As with the traps, the arrows slowed the darkspawn’s onslaught. Unfortunately, the barrage didn’t stop the charge.

 

Cailan shouted another command “HOUNDS!” At this, a chilling howl rang out from the front ranks and the wall of mabari kin ran from the front lines of the Ferelden army, hurtling like a wall of furry missiles across the valley, barking and snarling in eager rage at the battle at hand. While their numbers weren’t large, the mabari line finally slowed the darkspawn. 

 

Cailan grinned and drew his Greatsword. “FOR FERELDEN!”

 

His army answered with a deafening roar, and as one, charged with Cailan, Duncan, Conrí and the Grey Wardens at their head. The Hurlock Vanguard saw the threat and began to direct the attention of the darkspawn horde towards the incoming charge, but even as the horde saw them, Cailan’s charge hit them like a hammer blow. The loss of their momentum had cost them the advantage, and the charge of the Ferelden army sent them reeling. Great boulders began to launch from behind the tree line, causing Erin to wonder if the darkspawn had siege engines of their own. As she watched, one such missile slammed into a ruined tower of Ostagar, damaging it even further, sending chunks of shouldering masonry falling into the valley.

 

“Let’s get across the bridge, and get to the Tower of Ishal!” Alistair yelled over the din of battle. Erin nodded and the group raced across the bridge, keeping their heads down and shields up if they had them as arrows and even missiles were hurled at the archers and ballistae crews on the bridge. They managed to make it across the bridge, heading towards the gate they had entered the camp by, and made to turn left towards the Tower of Ishal. 

 

Two figures came running towards them as they neared the entrance to the tower’s courtyard: a tall, dark-haired man with a short beard, clad in the yellow and black robes of a mage of the Circle, and an older fellow in chainmail with a crossbow on his back. Both men bore expressions of terror on their faces as they ran towards the two Wardens, occasionally casting fearful looks back at the tower. They came to a stop at the foot of the stairs and saw the new arrivals; the chainmail-clad guardsman looked at the griffon medallions they wore and realized who they were. “You! You’re Grey Wardens aren’t you?! The tower...it’s been taken!”

 

“What are you talking about, man! Taken how!” Alistair snapped.

 

“The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers, they’re everywhere! Most of our men are dead!”

 

 “Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!” Alistair ordered and turned to the soldier and the mage. “What are your names?”

 

“Wilhelm, soldier of Denerim, at your command, my lord,” said the soldier bowing.

 

“Cormack, enchanter of the Circle of Magi, at your service, milord,” the young mage nodded.

 

Erin nodded. “Come with us,” she said. “We’re gonna need all the help we can get! Stay back and attack from a distance; let us deal with the bulk of the darkspawn!” With that, the group raced up the stairs and into the courtyard leading to the Tower of Ishal, coming upon a vicious combat; about five armored men were desperately holding their ground against a group of seven Hurlocks and five Genlocks firing arrows into the fray. They were led by an Alpha wielding a blade in both hands. 

 

The men were holding their own, but the darkspawn had the numbers game in their favor. As the group raced to their aid, Erin watched as one Hurlock leapt back from the swipe of a soldier with a battleaxe, then ran him through with its twisted scimitar. A second man fell, pierced at the neck and chest by three arrows shot by the Genlock archers. The Genlocks shrieked in delight at the kill, a cheer that turned into screams as Erin and Wilhelm dropped two of them with well-placed shots of their own.

 

With a yell, Garik hurled the axe he taken from Beraht at the Alpha; the blade flew end-over-end through the air and hit the Hurlock Alpha clean in the centre of its chest as it drew its sword arm back to finish off one of the men fighting. The monster was knocked clean off its feet, screeching in agony, its clawed hands clasped around the head of the axe embedded in its armored chest. Garik ran over and stomped the head in deeper; the Alpha gave a howl of pain, and then fell back to the ground, tainted blood dripping from its fangs. 

 

Garik drew the new daggers he’d bought from the quartermaster, their design allowing him to punch with the knuckle guards as the blades swept down to run almost parallel to his wrists and forearms. He was ready to fight on, but with the death of their leader, the remaining darkspawn were falling back, retreating back inside the safety of the tower. Garik stooped to remove his axe from the Alpha’s chest. The bit came free with what was no doubt a piece of the beast’s heart. “Ew…” he muttered. “Should have left it where it was.” Garik shook the axe, dislodging the bit of organ, before tucking the weapon into his belt.

 

Erin slammed an armored boot into the tower’s door, and the warriors, mage and rouges charged in, ready to fight their way to the summit of the tower and light the beacon before all was lost.

 

* * *

 

The group raced into the tower’s entrance hall before coming under attack by a trio of Hurlock archers and another emissary; a Genlock this time. As they entered the hall, Erin noticed the floor in front of the door was covered in a greasy slick. As they struggled in, Erin saw flames forming in the emissary’s hands.

 

“Blast…” she swore, knocking an arrow and releasing, the missile piercing the Genlock’s face and digging into its brain. Alistair and Wilhelm dropped two of the Hurlock archers with crossbow bolts, Erin charged the third darkspawn, knocked it to the floor with shoulder tackle and stabbed it in the throat.

 

The group tore through the first floor of the tower encountering a number of Genlocks and Hurlocks. Dozens of blood-stained bodies, hacked to pieces by blades and likely fanged teeth, indicated what had happened to the garrison. The darkspawn hurled themselves at the interlopers, but they posed little challenge; Erin, Alistair and Wilhelm first hit them with crossbow bolts and arrows. Those that survived long enough to fight back were finished off by Garik and Blair’s daggers or Cormack’s magic.

 

They quickly reached the staircase to the second floor. As they began to climb up to the second floor, Alistair wheezed out, “Maker’s Breath, what are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde! There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

 

Erin shrugged her shoulders and glibly replied, “You could try to tell them they’re in the wrong place.” 

 

“Right, because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding! We’ll laugh about this later!” Alistair’s face quickly sobered. “At any rate, we need to hurry! We need to get up to the top of the tower and light the signal fire in time: Teyrn Loghain will be waiting for the signal!”

 

The second floor armory was as much a blood-soaked hell as the first floor had been. The group was set upon by a pack of Genlocks as they entered. After hacking their way through the short beasts, the Wardens and their companions slammed through another door to find the tower’s kennels. A number of mabari war hounds were trapped inside their cages while a group of Genlocks, led by an Alpha, took pot shots at the helpless dogs. 

 

As the darkspawn saw the intruders, Blair placed a well-aimed shot at the cage release lever, freeing the dogs from their cages, and the mabaris fell upon their darkspawn tormentors like a torrent of fury. Leaving the darkspawn to the war hounds, the group raced to the staircase to the third floor, facing more Genlocks and a number of Hurlocks, but the creatures were eliminated as easily as those before them. 

 

The group reached the staircase to the fourth floor, at which point Cormack used his abilities to summon magical flames that enshrouded their weapons. Alistair turned to the group. “Be wary,” he said. “The beacon is up here, and no doubt the darkspawn will be waiting for us!”

 

Erin nodded and raised her twin swords. The top floor was a small circular chamber, the only notable object within it a pile of oil-soaked wood in a corner leading up a chimney to the roof of the chamber. Well… besides the mountain of muscle off to the right.

 

Hunched over in a corner of the chamber was a gargantuan creature unlike anything they had ever seen before. It looked like an ape of the jungles of Par Vollen, but it was much, much larger. If it stood upright, it would have towered over them at least ten feet tall. Its scarred, leathery skin was a dull blue-grey in color, with crude leather pauldrons, bracers and greaves tied to its muscular frame and limbs. The monster’s head lifted the sound of their approach, and swung round to face them. Its ugly, ape-like face was crested with an crown of curling stag-like horns. The monster’s expression contorted into a snarl of rage, its wide mouth baring fangs yellow with decay and corruption. Its gaping maw dripped blood from the remains of what Erin thought was one of the tower’s guards. As Erin watched, the beast raised a boulder-sized fist to its mouth to wipe the blood aside, its small, beady eyes narrowed in feral hate as it glowered at them.

 

“By the Stone!” Erin heard Garik fearfully murmur. “An ogre..!” Erin’s blood run cold. She’d heard stories of the ferocious ogres that prowled the wild, desolate places of Ferelden, killing and feeding on anything unlucky enough to cross their path, but she’d never realized they were darkspawn. The ogre rose to its full height, beating its immense fists on its broad, muscular and scarred chest as it roared a challenge. 

 

The group began to fan out, moving wide to encircle the beast and attack it from all directions. “Use caution here!” Erin heard Alistair warn “This thing’s going to take a lot of work to put down...”

 

His warning was interrupted as the ogre roared, lowered its head and charged like a bull straight at Alistair. The man saw the danger and leapt away, the ogre’s charge causing it to miss the warrior and slam into the chamber’s wall. Wilhelm put a crossbow bolt in its right shoulder and Cormack lashed it with a stream of magical fire, but such attacks did little more than enrage the darkspawn. It turned towards the mage, swinging out with a massive fist, and Cormack went flying through the air. 

 

Blair took advantage to attack the ogre from behind, stabbing her wicked daggers into the back of the monster’s right leg, hoping to sever its hamstrings and cripple it. The daggers bit deep into the flesh of the ogre’s leg, but not deep enough. As Blair pulled her blades free to attack again, the ogre bellowed in pained fury and kicked out backwards, its clawed foot catching Blair in the chest and sending her flying. Blair gave a winded gasp, but to her relief, nothing seemed to be broken as her cuirass had taken the brunt of the blow. 

 

Wilhelm realized what she’d been trying to do and put down his crossbow, drawing a mace from his belt and attacking the beast from behind. The ogre saw him coming and lashed out at him with its fist, but as it swung, Garik leapt into the air and sank his blades into the ogre’s wrist, stabbing deep and holding on. The ogre howled in furious pain as it shook its right arm, desperately trying to shake the dwarf off, but Garik held on for dear life, cursing his stupidity loudly.

 

The others took advantage of the darkspawn’s distraction; Alistair, Erin and Wilhelm hacked and chopped at the beast’s chest, drawing blood and pulverizing flesh, Cormack lashed it with bolts of magic fired from his staff, while Blair leapt back to her feet and charged the ogre once more, continuing to hack at the beast’s wounded leg. 

 

The monster kicked out again, but Blair nimbly dodged aside and kept hacking. Three heavy slashes brought the beast down to one knee in a spray of tainted blood as its tendons were severed, but it continued to fight on, trying to throw off Garik. As it finally managed to force the rogue to release his grip on its arm, the ogre seized the dwarf in its meaty right fist, drawing back its left to pummel him into a pulp, when Erin slashed her swords down heavily, then striking upwards with them, slashing her blades twice through the ogre’s face, splitting its snout and brow in a spray of dark blood. 

 

The ogre staggered back and lost its balance on its injured leg up, throwing out its arms in a desperate attempt to regain its balance, and Erin seized her chance; springing into the air, she leapt and stabbed her right-hand sword into the ogre’s shoulder to secure herself. Her full weight slammed into the ogre’s chest, sending it toppling like a felled tree as the sudden impact threw it even further off balance. The ogre screamed as Erin wrenched her sword free from its shoulder; it reached out in a final gesture with a clawed fist, trying to seize and crush the Grey Warden, but before it could, Erin reversed her sword and used her full weight to drive the sword and its twin down into the ogre’s brow. The darkspawn shrieked in pain as the sharp steel blades punched through the bones of its skull. The monster’s screams petered out into a rasping death rattle as a final breath escaped its fanged mouth, its white eyes widening and going blank as life fled its tainted corpse. The ogre’s outstretched claws limply fell back and it slumped to the floor, dead at last.

 

Garik gave a relieved sigh, wiping sweat from his brow as he realized the battle was won. He walked over to the Ogre’s arm and pulled his blades free from the ogre’s skin.

 

Alistair gestured to the pile of firewood, and Erin realized that while their fight was over, the battle below wasn’t. “Light the beacon! We’ve surely missed the signal, so let’s light it quickly before it’s too late!”

 

Erin nodded and ran over to the pile of firewood, burying the Cousland sword, still wreathed in magical fire, into the pile. The oil-soaked wood quickly caught light and the fire spread, igniting the beacon. Erin grinned; within a matter of minutes, Loghain and his men would see the signal and come charging to Cailan’s aid, hitting the darkspawn’s flank and sending them into disarray. With a triumphant smile at their successful completion of their task, Erin and Alistair pulled out the telescopes they’d been given and headed to one of the chamber’s windows to watch the victory.

 

What followed was nothing short of carnage. But it was not the carnage any of them had expected to see.

 

* * *

 

Loghain looked up at the beacon, hearing a rousing cheer coming from Cailan’s army fighting in the valley, no doubt eagerly awaiting the reinforcements to come crashing into the darkspawn’s flank. Turning to the dark haired woman at his right, Ser Cauthrien, his loyal second in command. He could see an eager anticipation in her eyes; no doubt she was eager to get her sword wet with darkspawn blood. Sadly, she was going to be disappointed. Loghain opened his mouth to give orders, but not the one any of his men either expected, or wanted to hear. “Sound...the retreat.”

 

Cauthrien’s dark eyes widened in confusion and shock, as though she hadn’t heard, or she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But what about the king?” she protested. “Should we not...?”

 

“Do as I command!” Loghain tersely snapped, seizing Cauthrien’s forearm. The woman stared at him in amazement but she quickly recognized the sorrow in his blue eyes.

 

Cauthrien pulled her arm free of Loghain’s grasp. Her shoulders slumped as she turned away.

 

“Pull out!” Loghain heard his lieutenant snap. “All of you, let’s move!” There were mutterings of discontent, uncertainty and even anger from among the ranks, 

As he too turned to join them, Loghain spared one last look at the Tower of Ishal. He felt a pang of regret at what he was doing; abandoning the king, a man who’d been like his own son, the child of his greatest friends, along with so many brave sons and daughters of Ferelden, valiantly fighting for their homes. 

 

His last act before joining his men in retreat was to sigh to himself, thinking of the Warden Cousland. He had spoken so passionately at the war council. He even had Loghain himself believing his words. But the signal had come far too late. No doubt the Wardens sent to the tower were dying at this very moment. So much potential… wasted… 

 

* * *

 

Conrí slashed his sword through the neck of another Hurlock. The Warden Lieutenant was fighting back to back with King Cailan, and both men knew their situation was dire. Their charge had caught the darkspawn off guard, but a second wave of the monsters charged from the trees and hit the king’s men hard, and slowly but surely, the darkspawn had driven the army back into the valley. The mages and archers had slowed the darkspawn’s onslaught, allowing the infantry companies to battle a disciplined fighting retreat back to the valley, but now the battle had soon devolved into a frenzied melee as men and women desperately fought for their lives against the never-ending tide of monsters. Sporadic volleys of arrows were loosed by a few ragged units of archers who’d managed to retreat back to the camp, where they could fire down on the darkspawn from above.

 

Serena parried the blade of another Hurlock and delivered a vicious kick to the darkspawn’s chest, sending it staggering back. She chanced a look upwards: at the top of the Tower of Ishal, a great fire was burning and Serena allowed herself a thin smile; Alistair and the others had succeeded. Her smile vanished as she realized the darkspawn were still driving on into the valley, and there was no sign of a second force hitting them in the flank: Loghain’s men weren’t coming. 

 

Where are you! she cursed. Damn you, old fool, we need help!

 

Behind her, King Cailan slashed the sword of his father had given him across the midsection of a Hurlock, all but cutting it in half, before knocking the scimitar from the hand of a second. Before it could recover, Cailan seized the darkspawn by its sword arm, ran it through and then kicked the Hurlock off his blade with a booted foot. All around them, men and women were fighting bravely to the last against their monstrous foes; Tira hacked off a Hurlock’s head with her longsword and smashed the jaw of a Genlock with the pommel of her short sword. Tristan was freezing Hurlocks and Genlocks by the dozens. 

 

Duncan himself desperately parried another attack from the Hurlock he’d booted in the chest, then shouldered it to the floor, desperately trying to fight down a rising tide of an emotion he hadn’t felt in years.

 

Panic.

 

It didn’t matter how bravely they fought or how many they killed; in a battle of attrition, the darkspawn simply had more numbers than they did. Duncan desperately scanned the skies, looking for what seemed now like the only way to end the battle, but to his despair, there was no sign of the archdemon-no draconic roar, no beating of leathery wings. Clearly the dragon was content to let its minions do its bidding without committing itself to the field.

 

Suddenly Duncan and Conrí felt a surge through the taint. Something… massive was approaching quickly. They had both been so distracted by the darkspawn troops, they hadn’t noticed it though the ocean of taint. 

 

Duncan whirled round, but to his disappointment, the approaching danger was regrettably not the archdemon, but the hulking blue form of an ogre. Duncan desperately tried to stab at the ogre’s chest, to drive his sword into its heart before it tore its way through the already crumbling army, but to his surprise, the ogre got him first, slamming a fist like a boulder into his side. Duncan felt ribs break as his plate armor crumpled under the blow, the ogre’s punch sending him flying through the air to land badly on the wet, blood-soaked ground. Looking up, winded by the blow, Duncan could only watch in horror as the ogre advanced on Cailan and Conrí. Like himself, Duncan’s lieutenant was batted aside like a fly. The young man landed heavily, obviously winded, though his cuirass had taken the brunt of the blow.

 

The king of Ferelden stabbed out, catching the monster a glancing blow on its arm, but the beast retaliated by seizing Cailan in its right claw, lifting him up to its face, growling at him with unthinking feral rage. Cailan showed no fear as the ogre held him up and roared angrily in his face. The young, brave king of Ferelden gasped only once as the ogre cruelly tightened the grip of its meaty fist. 

 

King Cailan died instantly. The ogre toyed with his corpse briefly, as though considering feeding, then seemed to lose interest and tossed the broken body aside, the armored corpse flattening two soldiers as it hit the ground less than a meter from Duncan. The old Warden could only stare disbelievingly at the broken form of the brave young king, who had trusted him, aided him...believed in him. And I failed him. Maker forgive me, I’ve failed all Ferelden!

 

The ogre’s roar brought Duncan out of his self-pity. The monster’s roar sounded almost triumphant, as if it gloried in its act of killing. The sound caused Duncan’s grief to melt into fury. Leaping to his feet and ignoring the lancing pain from his broken ribs, Duncan hurled himself at the ogre. His sword was gone from his hands, but he had another weapon: a silverite dagger of Antivan make, given to him years ago by an old friend.

 

With a roar of mad rage, grief and hate, Duncan sprinted straight at his enemy. The large darkspawn saw him coming and bellowed a challenge, but Duncan was already in midair by then, his knifes stabbing for the ogre’s chest. The daggers bit deep and the ogre howled in pain as Duncan’s weight drove them deeper into the monster’s sternum. I hope it hurts, you ugly, tainted bastard!

 

Duncan drew the left blade free and stabbed it back in, then stabbed with the right, drawing blood from deep wounds each time he struck. Finally, with a hateful scream, Duncan drove both blades to the hilt in the ogre’s heart. With a plaintive howl of pain, the ogre toppled backwards, Duncan riding its corpse to the ground as it fell slain. He allowed himself a moment of victory, then gasped in pain, doubling over as his heavily injured body made him pay for that moment. 

 

Slowly forcing himself off the ogre’s gigantic corpse, Duncan all but crawled over to Cailan’s body. The king of Ferelden lying in a sprawled, mangled heap inches away. Duncan didn’t bother to check for a pulse; no one could have survived with their spine so bent. 

 

“Calian!” Conrí had regained his footing and sprinted over to his fallen friend. “No…” he muttered. His head drooped as his face contorted into a grimace of pain. “No! DAMNIT!”

 

Duncan felt despair for the first time in so long. They had failed. “Conrí…” he said quietly. “I want you to take Tira, Serena and Tristan and get out of here. We’ve lost.”

 

“What about you?” Serena asked as she knelt next to him.

 

“I will try to buy you time. Get to safety!” Duncan ordered as he used Serena’s shoulder to help him stand. He picked up his sword. “Go! Now!”

 

Conrí looked for a moment as if he might disobey, but to Duncan’s relief, he turned to Tristan. “Surana, carve us a hole out of here. We head deeper into the Wilds.”

 

Tristan nodded and turned to the wall of darkspawn between them and the gate to the Korcari Wilds. With a roar, he unleashed a stream of ice, freezing deep into the darkspawn force. He swayed when the spell ended, only to be scooped up onto Tira’s shoulder. “You’re not dying on me here, Surana.” Conrí and Serena lead the charge, smashing through the icy darkspawn, shattering quite a few. 

 

Duncan watched them go before turning to greet a small number of Hurlocks that looked to end them. One was an Alpha, wielding a massive axe. The man fought valiantly but knew his time was up.

 

The axe fell, and so did Duncan. One brief moment of pain, that washed away the regret, the failure, the loss.

 

Duncan felt no fear as death claimed him. His duty was done. He could finally know peace.

 

* * *

 

The Wardens on the tower could only watch as the horrific spectacle unfolded below them. 

 

Erin barely heard Alistair yell in pained grief as Duncan fell. Erin simply felt numb. Another person that she knew torn away by the enemy of everything she held dear. 

 

Soon enough, Erin could hear the howling shrieks and bellows of the darkspawn, accompanied by the footfalls of feet running upstairs. Erin raised her swords. With a bellowed war cry, Erin broke into a run at the door, flanked by Garik, Blair and Alistair, hoping to cut down as many darkspawn as possible before they fell, but Erin never got the chance. At the dull twang of bowstrings being loosed she felt incredible pain as a volley of arrows fired almost point-blank smashed her from her feet. 

 

Pierced in the chest, shoulders and torso, Erin fell to the floor, blood leaking from arrow wounds that would certainly prove fatal. She tried to force herself back to her feet to fight on, but her body no longer answered her will. She heard the clang of metal on metal as Alistair and the others desperately made their own last stands, but her hearing began to fade away…

 

Her last thought before what was surely death claimed her was regret that once again, she had failed. Her family would never be avenged. Howe would never be held to account for his crimes. And now, Ferelden was surely lost to the darkspawn.

 

Darkness enveloped her, and Erin Cousland knew no more.

 

 


	12. The Aftermath

 

_ Deep in the Wilds _

 

Conrí struck his flints against each other over a pile of kindling, trying to light a fire. The group had gotten deep into the Wilds, managing to avoid the darkspawn with Conrí’s help. Tristan was laying off to the side, exhausted and on the verge of passing out. Tira was looking over Tsume for any wounds she might have missed. The wolf had sustained her share of injuries during the battle and afterwards. 

 

Serena however was pacing just outside the main camp, growling and swearing to herself. “Sodding old bastard… picked the perfect time to retreat, right when we needed him!” she lashed out, kicking a rusted helmet deeper into the forest.

 

“Enough!” Conrí barked. “You need to calm down.”

 

“Calm down?!” Serena snarled. “In case you haven’t noticed, Lieutenant, we’re the last Wardens in this Stone forsaken country! And the man who was supposed to answer the signal quit the field! That’s twice in as many months I’ve seen a betrayal.”

 

“Don’t think you were the only one who suffers from this, Aeducan,” Conrí growled, his eyes flashing.

 

His words were like a slap to Serena’s face. Just before the battle, Conrí had lost most of his family and friends. “I… you’re right… I’m sorry.”

 

“Forget it,” Conrí said. “We need to figure out where we go from here.”

 

“Ah, so this is what was causing such a racket so deep in the Wilds,” said a smooth voice from just behind the tree line. Conrí immediately dropped his flints and snatched up his sword. “Do not be alarmed. I mean no harm.” A young woman in tattered black robes strode easily out of the forest.

 

“Who are you?” Conrí growled, fingering the hilt of his claymore. 

 

“Morrigan?” Tira asked.

 

“You remember me?” Morrigan chuckled. “I am flattered, Warden.”

 

“You know this woman?” Conrí asked, relaxing slightly.

 

“Her mother was the one with the scrolls,” Serena informed him.

 

“Well, the only question is,” Conrí turned back to Morrigan. “Why are you here now?”

  
“A man and his subordinates wander through my home and he wonders why I am here?” Morrigan asked with an evil smile.

 

“Do not test me, woman,” Conrí growled. “I am in no mood for word games.”

 

“Very well. I believe my mother has something else you are looking for.”

 

“And that would be?”

 

“The rest of the group that came into the Wilds a few nights ago, of course.”

 

Serena’s eyes widened. “They’re alive? All of them?”

 

“All but the cowardly rouge and the knight. As they are not with you, I assume they were lost beforehand?” Morrigan asked.

 

“They… died before the battle,” Conrí told her.

 

“Ah. I see. My condolences for what it is worth. I will assume you will want to see them?”

 

“Yes. Would you be so kind as to lead us to them?” Conrí asked.

  
“Another sensible request,” Morrigan praised. “Mother’s hut is this way. ‘Tis not far.”

 

* * *

 

Consciousness slowly came back to Erin. The first thing she noticed was a dull pain in her back. She was laying on something sturdy, but decidedly uncomfortable. Her eyes cracked open making her flinch at the unexpected light shining through the small window across from her. 

 

“Ah, your eyes finally open,” said a familiar voice. “Mother will be pleased.”

 

Erin’s eyes snapped open, her hand immediately groping for her weapon, but it was nowhere to be found. She sat up as she recognized the young woman standing next to her bed, if the pile of pelts in a rough wooden frame could be called a bed. “I remember you… the woman from the Wilds…” she muttered, her voice cracking from lack of use and need of water. Morrigan handed her a skin and Erin drank eagerly.

 

“I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. And we are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds,” Morrigan gestured to the wraps around her arms and lower torso. “You are welcome by the way. How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”  


Erin shook her head as she swallowed. “I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn… then… nothing.”

 

“Mother managed to save you and your friends, but ‘twas a close call. What is important is that you all live. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend… he is not taking it well.”

 

“My friend?” Erin asked, taking another drink to quench her parched throat. “Alistair?”

 

“The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before? Yes,” Morrigan confirmed. “He and the rest of your fellows are outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

 

“What of the other Wardens?” 

 

“All dead, save your group and the handful I found in the Wilds a number of days ago. One in particular I had never met. ‘Tis odd… does he have some relation to you? You and he share the same eyes.”

 

“Is he about this much taller than me,” Erin gestured a number of inches above her head. “Wearing heavy plate and a claymore?” Morrigan nodded at Erin’s question. “Then, yes. He is my brother, Conrí.”

 

“I see. ‘Tis rare for siblings to both join the Grey Wardens is it not?”

 

“I’m not sure. I suspect it would be, though, considering. Were my injuries severe?”

 

“Yes, but I expect you shall be fine. The darkspawn did nothing mother could not heal.”

 

“Why does your mother want to see me, anyway?”

 

“I do not know. She rarely tells me her plans.”

 

Erin sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Was my armor salvageable?”

 

“There were a few small holes, but your dwarven friend managed to patch it up. He is rather handy with a set of tools. Your armor is in that chest with the rest of your belongings,” Morrigan pointed to a large metal chest in the corner of the room.

 

Erin quickly threw her armor on and belted her swords. She was quite amazed at how little soreness she felt. But then she tasted the slight sweetness of elfroot. Likely, Morrigan had steeped a few leaves briefly in the water skin.

 

The last thing she donned was her crystal medallion. She was amazed the fragile looking thing was still in one piece. Magic, she decided, noting the runes carved into the sides. 

 

As she exited the hut, Erin heard another, all too familiar voice. “See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.”

 

Alistair turned around to look at Erin, and an expression of joyful relief spread across his haggard, tired face as he saw his companion, though looking a little worse for wear, was still with him. “You...you’re alive! I was certain you were dead!”

 

“It takes more than a few darkspawn to kill me,” Erin told him. “I thought you would have learned that by now.”

 

“Duncan’s dead. The Grey Wardens, even the king, they’re all...dead.” Alistair took a shuddering breath, as if trying to regain control of his tangled emotions and continued. “This doesn’t seem possible. If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead on top of that tower!”

 

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad,” the old woman grumbled, her tone bristling with annoyance. 

 

Alistair turned to her, his expression contrite and his hands raised in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to offend...but what do we call you? You never told us your name.”

 

The old woman ran a hand through her matted grey hair and shrugged disinterestedly. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

 

“The Flemeth!” Alistair questioned her. “From the legends? Daveth was right...you’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?.”

 

 “And what does that mean!” Flemeth snapped curtly. “I know some magic, and it has served you well, has it not?”

 

“So why did you save us?” Blair asked from her place near the fire where she was cleaning her nails with the tip of her belt knife. 

 

Flemeth chuckled dryly. “Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

 

“It changed when most of them were slaughtered,” Tristan said sourly.

 

“If you think small numbers make us helpless, Surana,” said Conrí, dropping a pile of firewood next to the hut. “Then you’re already done.” He came forward to stand in front of Erin. After making sure she was indeed whole he smiled slightly. “It’s good to see you back with us, sister.”

 

“Good to be back,” Erin smiled back.

 

“Why would Loghain do this?” Alistair snapped as the siblings rejoined the conversation.

 

“Now that is a good question,” Flemeth said somewhat sadly. “The hearts of men hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps the old general believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind the Blight is the true threat.”

 

“The archdemon,” Alistair growled.

 

Tristan snorted as he stood. “The idiot and the noble brat are the real Grey Wardens here, not me,” he said.

 

Conrí glared at the elven mage. “If that’s how you feel, Surana, then you can go back to your tower. I’ll be sure to tell Irving how you failed as a Warden.” Tristan bristled.

 

“We have to do something!” Alistair shouted. “I won’t let the others’ deaths be in vain!”

 

“What is this archdemon, exactly?” Erin asked.

 

“It is said that, long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tevinter Imperium to slumber prisons deep beneath the surface. An archdemon is an Old God awakened and tainted by darkspawn. Believe that or not, history says it is a fearsome and immortal thing. And only fools ignore history.”

 

“We should contact the rest of the Grey Wardens,” Tira spoke for the first time since Erin had awoken.

 

“Cailan already summoned them,” Alistair told her. “They’ll come if they can. But I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won’t arrive in time.”

 

“What could that old coot hope to gain by abandoning the king?” Garik asked as he sharpened his blades.

 

“The throne? He’s the queen’s father…”

 

“Unlikely,” Conrí rumbled. “He had the perfect opportunity five years ago when Maric disappeared. Many advocated for him, but he refused.”

 

“If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it! The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There would be civil war!”

 

“Eamon?” Erin snorted. “What is that old bastard good for?”

 

“I know him!” Alistair insisted, either not hearing or choosing to ignore Erin’s scornful tone. “He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help.”

 

“Keep in mind,” Blair pointed out. “That Loghain was also an honorable man.”

 

“The arl would never do what Teyrn Loghain did,” Alistair protested. “I know him too well.”

 

Conrí rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He’d just leave Loghain and half of Fereldan to die just to get rid of ‘that up-jumped commoner.’”

 

“I still don’t know if Arl Eamon’s help would be enough. He can’t defeat the darkspawn horde by himself.”

 

Conrí sighed and strode towards Alistair. “You can be truly thick sometimes,” he said, tapping the former Templar on the head with a scroll. Alistair’s eyes widened. 

 

“OF COURSE! The treaties! The Grey Wardens can demand aid from elves, dwarves, mages and other places! They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!”

 

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “I may be old, but elves, dwarves, mages, this Arl Eamon and who knows what else…this sounds like an army to me!”

 

Alistair nodded and then turned to Conrí. “So can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and…build an army?”

 

“Whoa!” Garik broke in. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

 

“Take one step at a time,” Flemeth agreed. “But it is not so bad to know where those steps will lead you, yes?”

 

“It’s always been the duty of the Grey Wardens to stand against the Blight. And right now, we’re the Grey Wardens!” Alistair replied confidently, gesturing to himself and the others. 

 

Flemeth nodded approvingly and looked at them appraisingly. “So you are set then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

 

“Yes,” Conrí nodded. “Thank you for everything Flemeth. 

 

“No, no, thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now… before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

 

“The stew is bubbling on the fire, mother dear,” Morrigan told Flemeth as she rejoined them. “Shall we have eight guests for the eve, or none?”

 

“The Grey Wardens will be leaving shortly, girl…and you will be joining them.”

 

“Such a shame…” Morrigan began, her voice dripping with sweet sarcasm, until her mother’s words permeated into her brain. Her eyes went wide with shock and she whirled on her mother, looking outraged. “WHAT!”

 

“You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!” Flemeth laughed, unabashed at her daughter’s annoyance. 

 

Conrí decided to be diplomatic: he had no wish to offend Flemeth by turning aside her offer, but Morrigan clearly wasn’t too enthusiastic about it. “Thank you, but if Morrigan doesn’t wish to accompany us…” he began, but Flemeth cut across his polite attempt to smooth things.

 

“Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds, and how to get past the horde,” the old woman replied. 

 

“Have I no say in this!” Morrigan snapped at Flemeth.

 

Flemeth looked round, an eyebrow raised as though she didn’t understand what her daughter was protesting about. “You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Grey Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

 

“She’d better be as useful as you say,” Serena muttered. 

 

Flemeth gave her a sly smile. “Oh, she is. You could do with some magic, and my Morrigan’s as cunning as a root lizard.”

 

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth but…won’t this add to our problems?” Alistair added, looking uncertain at the offer. “Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.” 

 

Flemeth fixed the former Templar with a beady eye. “If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you atop that tower!”

 

“Point taken,” Alistair conceded, chastised. 

 

Morrigan, meanwhile, turned to her mother and Conrí was surprised to hear an almost pleading tone in her voice, something he would never have expected the girl, so confident and sharp-tongued, to use. “Mother, this is not how I wanted this. I’m not ready…!”

 

Flemeth’s answer was sympathetic but firm. “You must be ready. Alone, they must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight…even I.”

 

Morrigan made to protest further, then gave a resigned sigh and murmured in a defeated whisper. “I…I understand.” 

 

Flemeth nodded approvingly, and then turned to the others. “And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all else in this world. I do this because you must succeed!”

 

“I understand,” Conrí bluntly replied.

 

“Allow me to get my things, if you please,” said Morrigan curtly. She returned into the house briefly, re-emerging with her wooden staff in hand, a leather backpack at her feet and a long, thick travelling cloak made of what looked to be wolf fur wrapped around her slender frame. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village just north of the Wilds as our first destination. ‘Tis not far and you will find much you need there…or if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

 

“No, I prefer you speak your mind,” Conrí replied: there was no point making an enemy of a potential ally. 

 

Morrigan smiled slightly at this, only for it to become a scowl when Flemeth laughed and cut in mockingly. “You will regret saying that!”

 

“Dear sweet mother,” Morrigan hissed. ”You are so kind to cast me out like so! How fondly I shall remember this moment!”

 

Flemeth shrugged her shoulder, unconcerned and unabashed at her daughter’s anger. “Well, I always say if you want something done, do it yourself…or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards!” she finished with a low chuckle.

 

At this point, Conrí felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked round to see Alistair looking at him uncertainly, as though unsure whether what they were doing was a good thought. “Do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?”

 

Conrí shrugged. “We need all the help we can get.” 

 

Alistair nodded acceptingly at this logic. “I suppose you’re right. The Grey Wardens have always taken allies wherever they could find them.” 

 

“I am so pleased to have your approval.” Morrigan sneered.

 

“I have some questions, before we set off,” Conrí put forward. 

 

Morrigan nodded. “I may have answers. Ask.”

 

“I’ve been to the village you speak of. Is there any reason for us to go to Lothering?” Conrí asked.

 

“I mention it for its tavern, where travelers gather with news. Beyond that, ‘tis close and I know the way.”

 

“What skills do you have?”

 

“I know a few spells, though I am nowhere near as powerful as Mother. I have also studied history, and your Grey Warden treaties.” Morrigan answered.

 

“Can you cook?” Alistair questioned with a glib smile. 

 

Morrigan scowled and raised an eyebrow. “I…can cook, yes.”

 

“Then you can substitute for Alistair,” Garik inserted.

 

“Right. My cooking will kill us. That’s all I meant.”

 

“I also know at least fifteen different poisons that grow right here in this swamp. Not that I would suggest it is in any way related to cooking!” Morrigan added, finishing with a mockingly innocent smile. 

 

Conrí looked at her and then asked, “And how are your skills going to help us evade the darkspawn?”

 

At this, Morrigan gave an enigmatic smile and nodded in the direction of Alistair. “I think the real question is how we’re going to get you and your friend past the darkspawn, is it not?” 

 

Erin looked round and saw Alistair looking rather uneasy at this. She gave her fellow a questioning look and Alistair nodded pensively. “She has the right of it. We can sense the darkspawn, but conversely…they can sense us.”

 

“I don’t feel any darkspawn” Erin replied. 

 

Conrí shook his head. “You won’t, not right away. It takes time.”

 

“This is hardly reassuring….” Tristan muttered sullenly.

 

“We should be able to sneak past smaller groups, but larger ones or particularly intelligent darkspawn will always detect us,” Alistair answered in a placating tone.

 

“Mother has given me something else for them to ‘smell’ as we pass by,” Morrigan added. “However, it is important we head out of the Wilds, not further in!”

 

“The darkspawn are camped further in the forest?” Erin asked

 

Morrigan shook her head. “They come from underground, like an eruption. They broke through deep within the forest, and that is where they will be most concentrated.”

 

Conrí nodded. “Very well, if that’s the case, we’ll want to get under way as soon as possible.” 

 

Morrigan nodded in agreement and turned to face Flemeth. “Farewell, Mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire: I would hate to return to a burned down hut!”

 

Flemeth snorted at this. “Bah! ‘Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight!” 

 

At this, Morrigan looked hurt for the first time. “I…all I meant was…” she stammered.

 

Flemeth nodded understandingly. “Yes, I know. Do try to have fun, dear!” she finished with a soft smile.

 

As the group followed Morrigan through the Wilds, Tira and Blair fell into step with her. “Have you ever been outside the Wilds?” Tira asked. The witch nodded.

 

“From time to time,” she said. “I have been to the village, watched its people and pondered what curious beings they are. On occasion, I purchased goods from the village merchants. There I spoke with men, a little. There they stared and knew me as an outsider. Mother wishes for me to expand the horizon of my experience beyond the Wilds. Even she was not born here.”

 

“Is that what you want?” Blair asked.

 

“What I want is to see mountains. I wish to witness the ocean and step into its waters. I want to experience a city rather than see it in my mind. So… yes, this is what I want. Actually leaving is… harder than I thought, however. Perhaps Mother is right; it must simply be done quickly.”

 

“The ocean is quite the thing to behold,” Conrí told her. “All sons and daughters of Highever are born on the ocean, so Erin and I have more than enough experience with it.”

 

“Highever…” Morrigan pondered. “That is the town on the shores of the Waking Sea, no?”

 

“It is,” Erin agreed. “On a clear day you can just see the islands off the coast of Kirkwall.”

 

“I don’t recommend going there,” Conrí advised.

 

“Why is that?” Morrigan asked.

 

“Kirkwall is ruled by the Templars in all but name,” Erin said. “The city’s nickname is enough to keep me away. They call it the City of Chains.” 

 

“Their Viscount is weak and doesn’t dare contradict Knight-Commander Meredith,” Conrí went on. “But the worst thing has to be Kirkwall’s Circle. The Gallows.”

 

“That sounds… ominous…” Morrigan muttered.

 

“It was once a prison in the days of the old Tevinter empire, holding slaves who had been brought to work the quarries.”

 

“Fitting, then,” Morrigan chuckled darkly. “For it now to be a prison for mages.” 

 

The group made their way through the marshes of the Korcari wilds. Garik and Serena complained frequently about the insects chewing on them, having never come across mosquitoes and such. A few days passed and they finally left the Wilds behind them and made their way through the hinterlands, avoiding larger Darkspawn patrols thanks to Conrí and Alistair’s sense of them.

 

As they neared Lothering, Conrí called a halt. “More ‘spawn?” Serena asked. Conrí nodded. “How many?”

 

“Few enough that we can handle them.”

 

“Excellent,” Serena growled, grinning fiercely. “I’ve been wanting to get some payback on those bastards.”

 

Barking was heard off in the distance. The group looked up to see a mabari running towards them. The hound came up to Blair and barked several times in warning.

 

Coming over a nearby hill was a huge number of darkspawn in a tight formation and led by an alpha Hurlock. Conrí, Alistair, Erin and Serena immediately charged, cutting through the darkspawn. Garik quickly followed, his daggers flashing dangerously. Tira, Blair and Tristan hung back, pelting the Hurlocks with arrows and spells. 

 

The alpha Hurlock charged at the group in a mad effort to kill one of them. The dog flashed past Blair, grabbing the Hurlock’s neck and jerking his head back. A loud snapping sound echoed through the clearing. The darkspawn was dead.

 

Once the battle was over, the dog walked up to Blair and wagged his tail. “I think this is the dog I helped cure at Ostagar,” she said, kneeling in front of the large animal.

 

 “I think he was out there looking for you,” Alistair theorized. “He has chosen you… mabari are like that.”

 

“Told you,” Conrí grunted as he wiped blood from his blade.

 

“Does that mean that this mangy beast will be following us about now? Wonderful,” Morrigan stated in disgust.

 

“He's not mangy!” Alistair barked at Morrigan, seemingly trying to improve his relationship with the dog.

 

“Trying keep from getting bitten, Alistair?” Conrí snickered, remembering Alistair’s not-so-pleasant first meeting with Koun.

 

“No… well maybe a little,” Alistair admitted before he started to mumble to himself. “You think that I act like I was raised by wild dogs from the Anderfells. But no, I somehow usually piss them off.”

 

“Maybe it has to do with your annoying attitude,” Morrigan suggested.

 

“I always wanted a dog,” Blair said, scratching the mabari’s ears. “Maybe it was meant to be. But what to name you?”

 

“Why not Kiba?” Tira suggested.

 

“Kiba, I like it,” Blair commented. “How about you? You like it, Kiba?” The dog answered with barking and jumping around happily. “Kiba it is.”

 


	13. The Sister and the Sten

 

_ Landsmeet Chamber, Royal Palace, Denerim _

 

“And I expect each of you to supply these men; we must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and quickly!” Loghain cried to the assembled listeners. “There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them; we must defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we must do so sensibly and without hesitation!”

 

Suddenly, a rich, firm voice called out from the crowd below. “Your Lordship, if I might speak?”

 

Anora looked down at the speaker simultaneously with her father; it was a man in his early thirties, with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, a long braid of which curled around his left brow and rested behind his ear, with a short beard and piercing brown eyes. Unlike the other men and women in the hall, who were dressed in robes, tunics and dresses of finely cut silks in a variety of colors, this lord was clad in functional heavy chainmail forged of red steel, with a longsword of the same metal sheathed at his waist. 

 

Anora recognized him: Bann Teagan Guerrin, the Bann of Rainsefere and one of Cailan’s uncles on his mother’s side. Anora couldn’t see Teagan’s older brother, Eamon, present here, a fact that unsettled her. Surely Eamon would be present to decide what happens to Ferelden in the wake of his nephew’s death! She noticed several of the lords present were also scanning the crowd, looking for Eamon in the wake of his brother’s call; Eamon surely would have been the first to question her father’s intentions.

 

Eamon was not the only noticeable absentee from the meeting; the loss of Bryce Cousland still sat ill with many. Before Loghain had made his report about Ostagar, Rendon Howe had been called to account for the attack his forces had led on Highever. Howe had said he had found irrefutable proof that Bryce had intended to betray Ferelden to Orlais, and Howe had assaulted Highever to bring the traitor to justice. Howe also claimed that he had only intended to arrest Bryce, but the teyrn of Highever had refused to come quietly and been killed in the attack. 

 

In any case, with Bryce and Eleanor dead at Highever, and both their sons and only daughter believed to have perished at Ostagar, there was no one present to challenge the accusations. Even so, many had muttered discontentedly, and a few had even booed when her father named Howe new teyrn of Highever, as well as the new arl of Denerim, replacing Arl Urien, who’d tragically gone to meet the Maker at Ostagar also. Even so, the loss of two prominent nobles, both of whom would have challenged what her father was doing, and would have a large following in doing so, sat ill with Anora. She couldn’t help but wonder, Did you have a hand in this, Father?

 

Her discontent was pushed to the back of her mind as her father motioned for Teagan to speak. “You have declared yourself Queen Anora’s regent, and claim we must unite under your banner for our own good... but what of the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawal was most...fortuitous.”

 

There was a collective gasp of shock and outrage at this from the surrounding nobles, and Anora saw Loghain stiffen, his face turning white and contorting into a grimace of outrage as he took in the not-so thinly veiled accusation. He shouldn’t be surprised Anora mused; the Wardens and Cailan had gone down fighting, and that Loghain had deserted, abandoning Cailan and his army to their deaths. Most had initially dismissed it as scaremongering by malcontents, but the rumor was becoming more and more widespread, especially from among her father’s soldiers. It didn’t surprise her that Teagan would bring this up; the Bann had been very close with his nephew, but to make so blatant an accusation...

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence,” Loghain growled. “I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither will any of you!”

 

“The Bannorn will not bow to you, simply because you demand it!” Teagan snapped.

 

The old teyrn glowered at his rival and snarled in a deadly tone of voice. “Understand this; I will brook no threat to this nation, from you or anyone!” With that, her father turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber. Anora looked down at the departing crowd as the meeting adjourned, and she could hear the whispers as they left; none of them were satisfied.

 

“Demanding our allegiance! Outrageous!” Anora heard one noblewoman complain. 

 

One of her companions nodded and disgustedly added “Who does he think he is, Meghren? This behavior is an affront to everything we fought the Orlesians for!”

 

Anora knew she had to end this, before real damage was done. Looking round, she saw her target, walking towards the exit, surrounded by a crowd of noblemen and women all talking to him and nodding in agreement with his words, and cried out “Bann Teagan, please!”

 

“Your Majesty, your father risks civil war. If Eamon were here...”

 

“Bann Teagan, my father is simply doing what is best” Anora pleaded in an aggrieved tone of voice, urging him to see sense. Does he think me a fool? I don’t like the sound of what my father intends anymore than they do, but...surely the darkspawn should be the priority!

 

Bann Teagan shook his head in exasperation. “Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?” he asked, his tone biting.

 

Anora felt something in her give, and she almost collapsed, reaching out to grab a railing to stop her from falling, her mind reeling at how deep Teagan’s barb had cut. 

 

Her father had commended the Grey Wardens skill and honored their sacrifice, but didn’t believe in their so called Blight. He expressed remorse that Conrí Cousland had been lost, given that the lad showed such skill and passion, especially when he spoke of the reality of the Blight. “That bastard Duncan must have gotten in his head,” Loghain had said. 

 

Unlikely, Anora thought. Conrí was a Cousland and as cunning as they come.

 

More likely the Wardens knew something her father did not. It had happened before…

 

* * *

 

Conrí tossed the last body of the bandits who had been foolish enough to attack them off the side of the road. “Well, here we are,” Alistair muttered. “Lothering...pretty as a painting.”

 

 “Ah, finally decided to rejoin us, have you?” Morrigan mocked. “Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble?”

 

“Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost anyone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

 

Morrigan gave an amused snort. “Before or after I stopped laughing?” 

 

Alistair shook his head in exasperation. “Right, very creepy. Forget I asked.”

 

“You have been very quiet,” Conrí replied fairly. 

 

Alistair nodded. “Yes, I know. I’ve been thinking.” 

 

“No wonder it took so long!”

 

“I get it; this is where we’re shocked to discover you’ve never had a friend your entire life!” 

 

“I can be friendly when I desire to. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.” Morrigan replied with an unconcerned shrug.

 

Alistair threw Morrigan a look of disgusted exasperation then turned to face Conrí. “Anyway...I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first,”

 

“We need to find Fergus. He may still be alive,” Erin snapped. She had toyed with the notion in the Wilds, but there had been no time to stop. But now they were able to recover themselves, she wished to try and at least ascertain what had happened to her eldest brother, the only family he had left. Alistair gave him a chagrined expression.

 

“He was out scouting in the Wilds, wasn’t he?” Alistair asked. “That’s what the king said.”

 

“Then attempting to look for him there would be foolish,” Morrigan said sharply. “He has either already managed to make it to the north...or not.”

 

“Very sensitive,” Alistair sniped. 

 

Morrigan gave him a withering look and then turned back to Erin, her gaze sympathetic, but her tone firm and hard. “I am simply saying that it is foolish to look for this man when you have no notion where he is and the Wilds are overrun with darkspawn. You will either find him with other survivors...or not at all.” 

 

This time, it was Alistair’s turn to be the diplomat. “Moving on, I think what Flemeth suggested is the best idea; using the treaties. Have you looked at them?” Conrí nodded curtly with a roll of his eyes, remembering that he had been the one to point out the use of the treaties to Alistair. “As you’ll have seen, there are three main groups we have treaties with: the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar and the Circle of Magi. I also still think Arl Eamon is our best bet for help; we might even want to go to him first.”

 

Conrí snorted and shook his head. “I’d really rather not have to rely on that old man,”

 

“What is your issue with Eamon?” Alistair asked heatedly.

 

“Alistair, if I was to list all of my grievances with Eamon Guerrin, we’d be standing here until the next Age,” Conrí growled.

 

“What about the Grey Wardens?” Blair asked, interrupting the argument. “We’ll need all the help we can get against the archdemon!” 

 

Alistair shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “Short of leaving Ferelden to seek them out, the only place to send word would be Weisshaupt Fortress, and that’s thousands of miles away.” 

 

Conrí sighed reluctantly; it looked like in terms of Grey Wardens, they were going to have to make do with what they had. “Then we’d best find the people we can contact.”

 

“I can give you directions if you like,” Alistair told him.

 

“Where can we find Arl Eamon?” Blair asked.

 

“He’ll be at Castle Redcliffe, in the far western part of Ferelden, next to the mountain passes. If he isn’t there, someone will be able to tell us where he is.”

 

“Won’t the Circle of Magi do what the Chantry says?” Tristan asked.

 

“Technically, the Circle of Magi is independent,” Alistair said. “We don’t know that the Chantry won’t support us, of course.”

 

Conrí groaned in exasperation. “Are you really that thick? Why would they? The Chantry only supports those who can line their coffers.”

 

“If we speak to the First Enchanter, he should see that his responsibility to the Grey Wardens supersedes anything the Chantry… or even Teyrn Loghain… might have to say about it.”

 

“My clan has already gone to the north,” Tira sighed. “We won’t find them.”

 

“There’s more than one clan wandering Fereldan. If we head eastward towards the Brecilian Forest, we should hear word of another in the area.”

 

“We’ve been exiled from Orzammar,” Serena pointed out. “We can’t go back there.”

 

“You’re going to have to,” Alistair said firmly. “I certainly wouldn’t want to go there alone.”

 

“Why?” Morrigan asked with a mocking sneer. “Would it frighten you? Are you afraid of dark, sunken places, hmm?”

  
“I mean you won’t have any choice,” Alistair grumbled. “You’ll be there under Grey Warden business, and the dwarves will just have to see reason.”

 

“Reason,” Garik snorted. “Right.”

 

“And what about Loghain? I’ve got an overpowering urge to put something long and sharp through his head...” Serena snarled.

 

“If he isn’t out in the field with his army, he’s probably going to be at the palace in Denerim. We can go to Denerim, but somehow I suspect they aren’t going to let us just walk around. Just a suspicion of course.”

 

“Do you have anything to contribute to this, Morrigan? What would you suggest?” Erin questioned.

 

“Go after your enemy directly,” she replied with a bloodthirsty grin. “Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety.” 

 

Alistair gave a loud snort. “Yes, he certainly won’t see that coming! And it’s not like he has the advantage of an army and experience and-!”

 

“I was asked for my opinion and I gave it!” Morrigan waspishly snarled back. “If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us!” 

 

“Enough!” Conrí snapped. “I want to hear more news of what’s happening elsewhere in Ferelden before we head off. Once we have a clearer picture, I’ll decide!”

 

“Fair enough” Alistair replied with a shrug of the shoulders. “Let’s head into the village whenever you’re ready.”

 

“Blair, I want you, Morrigan, Garik and Erin to find a trader, see what we can get for the hides and what not. The rest of us will head to the tavern and find out what we can.”

 

* * *

 

“Well. Look what we have here, men. I think we've just been blessed,” a man of middling years strode toward

 

“Uh-oh,” Alistair commented. “Loghain's men. This can't be good.”  


“Didn't we spend all morning asking people if they had seen people by this very description?” The soldier asked. “And everyone said they hadn't seen anyone resembling them.”

  
“It seems we were lied to.”

 

Conrí snorted. “We’ve arrived but a few moments ago.”

 

“Gentlemen, surely there’s no need for trouble,” a vaguely familiar voice sounded from nearby. “We need not need violence over what is likely a misunderstanding.” The young red haired Sister that had given Conrí and the others food during their last time in Lothering had come up to the group.

 

“There is no misunderstanding Sister, and we are not here to cause a disturbance. We are under the orders of Teyrn Loghain. He wanted to be informed if any Grey Wardens survived Ostagar,” The commander reported as everyone gasped. “If so, they are to be escorted to Denerim for their safety.”

 

“We appreciate Loghain’s sentiments, but we have business elsewhere,” Conrí explained as he pulled out the treaties. “As I have told the teyrn, we need to gather troops from these people to fight the Blight.”

 

The commander looked them over and saw the list include the Dalish Elves, the Mages, the Dwarves, and even small groups like the Ash Warriors. “I am sorry, ser, but my orders are clear. You are to be brought to Loghain. I am sure he would be happy to know he has help against this darkspawn incursion.”

 

“Not possible,” Conrí told him with a shake of his head. “As I said, we have to gather allies for face the darkspawn. And this is no mere incursion, my friend. We have no time to be waste in Denerim.”

 

“I’m afraid we must insist, Warden,” said the commander as he and his soldiers fanned out.

 

Conrí lifted his head slightly, a wry grin coming over his face. “Ah. So that’s how this is going to work,” he said. 

 

“Teyrn Loghain’s orders,” the commander grimaced.

 

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to turn around and follow Loghain back to Denerim. We don’t answer to the Teyrn,” Conrí straightened his bracers as he spoke. “But if you’re going to insist…” he turned slightly to the Sister. “We don’t need your help, miss. Please stand back, for your own safety...”

 

To his surprise, the Orlesian Sister gave a very unfeminine snort and laughed. “You don’t need my protection, but these men will blindly follow their master’s commands, even unto death.”

 

“Try not to kill them,” Conrí smirked. One of the soldiers foolishly charged, only for Conrí to stomp kick him in the upper thigh, causing the man to crumple. Conrí finished it with a low roundhouse kick to the face.

 

The melee ensued, the Wardens and the Sister sticking to unarmed combat. Well, Tristan used his staff to block and trip with surprising dexterity, but refrained from using magic. The fight ended with the commander under Conrí’s boot. “All right, you've won! I surrender!”

 

“Good,” the woman commented. “They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting, now.”

 

Conrí snorted and lifted his foot from the soldier’s chest. Before the man could get up, Conrí seized him by the neck of his cuirass, lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the wall of the tavern. “Tell me something,” Conrí growled. “How many men does it take to deliver a message?”

 

“O-one?” the commander stuttered

 

“Exactly! Be thankful for you lives. And let Loghain know that sending dregs like your men is not convincing that he has good intentions.”

 

“I’ll tell him!” the commander declared fearfully. “Right away. Now. Thank you!” he gathered his men and they all retreated.

 

“Sorry about the mess,” Conrí told the barkeep, flicking a sovereign to the middle aged man.

 

“They had it coming. So long as you don’t cause more trouble, I won’t get excited,” the barkeep said. 

 

“I apologize for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” the Sister said as she straightened her robes.

 

“I appreciate what you tried to do, Sister Leliana,” Conrí told her.

 

Leliana smiled. “I’m glad you found it in your heart to offer those men mercy. I’m sorry, I never caught your name, Warden.”

 

“I am Conrí. A pleasure.”

 

“You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do? I know after what happened you’ll need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.”

 

Conrí’s eyes widened and he glanced among the other Wardens with him. “Why so eager to come with us?”

 

“The Maker told me to,” Leliana told them, matter-of-factly.

 

Serena pinched the bridge of her nose as Tristan rolled his eyes and Alistair cocked his eyebrow. Tira grimaced and Conrí pressed two fingers to his brow as his eyes closed. “Can you… elaborate?” he asked warily.

 

“I know that sounds… absolutely insane--but it’s true! I had a dream… a vision!”

 

“More crazy?” Alistair muttered. “I thought we were all full up.”

 

“Look at the people here,” Leliana gestured to the inhabitants of the tavern. “They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos… will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this. What you do, what you are meant to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help!”

 

“I need more than prayers, I’m afraid,” Conrí pointed out. 

 

Leliana met the tall man’s skeptical gaze with a defiant lift of her chin. “I can fight. I can do more than fight. I was not always a lay sister. I put aside that life when I came here, but now… if it is the Maker’s will, I will take it up again. Gladly. Please let me help you.”

 

Conrí looked the sister dead in the eye. After a tense moment he nodded. “Very well. I will not turn aside help when it is offered.”

 

Leliana beamed happily. “Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance. I will not let you down.”

 

“Warden?” A young man in splintmail armor gestured to Conrí.

 

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

 

“I represent the Blackstone Irregulars,” the man said. “We’re a mercenary company that fell on hard times after the war with Orlais. I’m sure you know that times are getting worse every day. With your help, the Irregulars could be of use to Fereldan once more.”

 

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of you,” Conrí nodded. “You fought alongside King Maric during the war with Orlais.”

 

“Our current captain, Raelnor, is an honorable man who sees that we can do some good in Fereldan once more. He is so confident in our mission that he trusts the Grey Wardens would support us.”

 

“How can I be of service, my friend?”

 

“Each of our posts in Fereldan will contain letters addressed to you. Unlike most who work with us, you’re getting letters straight from Raelnor and Taoran, our leaders. I hope this tells you how highly the Irregulars regard the Grey Wardens.”

 

“I’ll take a look,” Conrí promised. 

 

“Thank you, Warden. When you’ve completed a mission, just return to me, or any of our members stationed at an Irregulars post. We’ll make sure your efforts are rewarded. Maker’s blessings light your path.”

 

“Do you have anything besides Chantry robes and a dagger?” Tira asked, gesturing to what Leliana was wearing.

 

The former sister nodded. “I have armor and a bow back at the chantry. But before we head there, I have a suggestion…”

 

* * *

 

The Wardens and their companions made their way to the outskirts of Lothering. Leliana had led them to a cage just outside the main part of the village.

 

“You aren’t one of my captors,” said the man inside as Conrí approached his cage. The being’s gaze grew cold and he turned away. “I will not amuse you anymore than the other humans. Leave me in peace.”

 

“What are you?” Serena asked. 

 

The creature pointed to the cage in which it sat and sullenly replied, as though it were obvious. “A prisoner. I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the Chantry.”

 

“The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family...even the children,” Leliana said sadly. 

 

The tanned being nodded at Leliana and replied solemnly. “It is as she says. I am Sten of the Beresaad- the vanguard, if you will- of the Qunari people.”

 

Conrí bowed and replied, “I am Conrí. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

 

The Qunari’s eyebrows rose in surprise, cocking his head. “You mock me...or perhaps you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Though it matters little now. I will die soon enough,” he finished, his face becoming melancholy. At this, Koun ran forward, whining slightly. He rooted around in Conrí’s pack, pulled out a cake in his teeth and pressed his head against the cage door, offering it to the Qunari. Sten smiled at the gesture and patted the dog on the snout. “Tempting, my friend but I must decline. Would you prolong your own suffering in my position?” He gently pushed Koun back and looked back at Conrí. “I suggest you leave me to my fate.”

 

“This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped here as prey for the darkspawn,” Morrigan intoned. “If you cannot think of a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone!”

 

“Mercy?” Alistair asked, the surprise in his voice clear. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you!” 

 

Morrigan gave a snort and added “I would suggest Alistair take his place in the cage!” 

 

Alistair nodded sagely. “Yeah, that’s what I would’ve expected.” 

 

Conrí ignored them; in truth, he’d been thinking along the same lines as Morrigan. As with Leliana, they needed all the help they could get, and for all that people claimed the Qunari were unnatural and evil, they were renowned for being formidable warriors...

 

“You say you committed murder. Aren’t you interested in atoning for your crimes?”

 

“Death will be my atonement,” was the Qunari’s blunt reply. 

 

“There are other ways to atone,” Serena told him. 

 

Sten looked up at her, an eyebrow raised in surprise, as though he hadn’t expected such an answer. “Perhaps… What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?”

 

“You could help us defend the land against the Blight,” Tira solemnly rasped. 

 

Sten looked up at this, and Conrí saw a look of genuine interest in the Qunari’s eyes. “The Blight! Are you... Grey Wardens?” in a tone Conrí wasn’t used to hearing; one of respect. Unlike the people of Ferelden, who seemed to have forgotten all the Wardens had done and needed to do for them, this lone Qunari knew and understood the necessity for the Order, and respected them.

 

“Yes, we are,” he replied.

 

“Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill...though I suppose not every legend is true. Still, perhaps if you were to tell the Revered Mother who ordered me imprisoned that the Grey Wardens require my assistance, she might let me free. It seems as likely to bring about my death as waiting here.”

 

Conrí nodded and replied, “I shall go and speak to her. Leliana, come with me; you know the Revered Mother, she’ll be more than likely to listen to you. Alistair, you wait here with the others, we’ll be back soon.”

 

As they walked away from the cage, Leliana mused, “His crimes are terrible, but...to be left there to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn? No one deserves that, not even a murderer.”

 

The pair quickly raced back to Lothering’s Chantry, where with Leliana’s help, they were able to secure an audience with the Revered Mother. After giving the Revered Mother a donation of ten silvers for taking the time to speak with them, Conrí put forward his request for Sten’s release. The Revered Mother’s tone made it clear she disapproved, fearing the Qunari might lapse and go on another bloodletting rampage the second he was let out, with Conrí’s insistence and Leliana’s reassurance that in his company, Sten might actually do some good, the old priestess relented and gave them a simple brass key to unlock Sten’s cage.

 

With that, Conrí and Leliana made to leave the Chantry: as they exited, Conrí noticed something in a nearby bush that caught his eye; he quickly plucked it and hurried after Leliana back to where the others were gathered by the cage. 

 

Moving quickly, Conrí pulled out the key and placed it in the cage’s lock. “I confess, I did not think the priestess would part with it,” Sten mused as the youth set him free. As the cage door swung open, Sten stepped out, stretching to his full height and rubbing life back into his cramped muscles. “And so it is done. I will follow you into battle against the Blight. In doing so, I will find my atonement,” Sten pronounced solemnly.

 

“And if I do not lead you to your atonement?”

 

“Then I shall find it myself...may we proceed? I am eager to be elsewhere.”

 

“As are we all…

 

* * *

 

Late that night, Erin and the her fellow Junior Wardens slept fitfully.

 

Atop a bridge high above a canyon filled with darkspawn, Erin saw what she had expected to see; the dragon she had witnessed just after the Joining. No, she realized, not a dragon, the archdemon. The archdemon threw back its head, like a snake swaying before its charmer, and let loose an echoing roar that reverberated around the cavern, a deafening bellow of rage and hate against all life. The darkspawn howled and gibbered in answer to the monster’s shrieks, like a crowd of devotees chanting in answer to a priest’s sermon. The archdemon opened its fanged jaws and a pillar of fire erupted from its maw, reaching to the ceiling of the cavern. And as Erin watched, she could hear one word resounding in her mind, one word repeated over and over from the legions below...

 

“Urthemiel! Urthemiel! URTHEMIEL!” 

 

The dragon’s head swiveled around when its flame extinguished itself, seeming to stare directly at Erin…..

 

Erin jerked awake in a cold sweat. She panted heavily as she sat up, resting her head on her upraised knees. When her breathing stabilized, she looked around, noticing the others who had Joined with her were in a similar state. Tira was paler than Erin had ever seen the Dalish elf. Blair fingered her daggers agitatedly, glancing about as if expecting an attack at any moment. Tristan appeared to be on the verge of being ill. Serena and Garik both looked alarmed, having never experienced a dream, let alone this kind of nightmare.

 

“Bad dreams, huh?” Erin looked over to see Alistair and Conrí sitting near the fire, sympathetic expressions on their faces. Alistair had been the first to speak, his hands holding the sword the Chanter in Lothering had given him for dealing with the requests on his board, and a whetstone. The man had called the blade Oathkeeper, something usually awarded to exceptional Templars.

 

“Must’ve been something I ate,” Tristan grumbled.

 

“Drank, more like,” Conrí pointed out. “As in the tainted blood, remember? See, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That’s what your dream was. Hearing them.”

 

“The archdemon, it… talks to the horde and we feel it just as they do,” Alistair continued. “That’s why we know this is really a Blight.”

 

“The archdemon? Is that the dragon?” Tira asked, shivering slightly.

 

“I don’t know if it’s really a dragon, but it sure looks like one. But yes. That’s the archdemon.”

 

“It takes a bit,” Conrí went on. “But eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can’t.”

 

“Anyhow,” Alistair reigned in the conversation. “When we heard you lot thrashing around, we thought we should tell you; it was scary at first for us, too.” Conrí nodded.

 

“Any other surprises we should know about?” Garik asked, rubbing his arms uncomfortably. As a dwarf, he had never dreamt before, so when confronted by visions of darkspawn as his first venture into the world of dreams, it unnerved the normally stout rogue.

 

“Other than dying young and the whole defeat-the-blight-alone thing?” Conrí chuckled. “No, all tapped out for surprises. Anyhow, you’re all awake now, yeah. Let’s get breakfast started, then pull up camp. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

 

“Where are we headed first?” Erin asked.  
  
“The Circle. It’s closest and it should be an easy stop.”

 

 


	14. Broken Circle, Part 1

 

The trip to Lake Calenhad took a few days, letting the Wardens and their companions get to know each other better. 

 

A dwarven trader by the name of Bodahn Feddic along with his son Sandal had found them early the morning after they had left Lothering. By chance it was the same dwarf they had saved from a small band of Darkspawn not far from the village. Conrí was suspicious at first, but allowed the pair to stay, especially when he learned Sandal could enchant weapons and armor.

 

Alistair revealed why he had been so vehement in defending Arl Eamon; he was a bastard and the old Arl had been the one to raise him in a fashion - though “raised” was a rather generous way to put it. Alistair slept in the stables and wasn’t taught much of anything, but how to care for the Arl’s horses. Conrí and Erin both grimaced. He was obviously too close to the situation to see how badly he was treated. 

 

Who his father was revealed to be, he kept to himself.

 

Sten was an enigma, to say the least. The large man said little, but he and Conrí had seemed to come to some sort of non-verbal agreement. This didn’t seem to extend to Garik, who pestered the large man with questions incessantly.

 

Leliana had revealed she had once been a traveling minstrel in Orlais, but somehow found herself in Fereldan and sought shelter from a storm in the Chantry. Conrí didn’t fully buy it, but decided that the young woman was entitled to her secrets. The only question still rolling through his head was whether she was a mere minstrel… or a bard.

 

Of herself, Morrigan said little. What Tristan had managed to wheedle out of her was sparse, save that she had lived in the Wilds her whole life and learned shape shifting from Flemeth.

 

A small inn lay on the banks of the lake where Conrí reserved a few rooms. It would be a little tight, but it was somewhere to sleep besides their tents. Their bedrolls needed an airing anyway.

 

Tristan sat at the bar, sipping a bland ale, when an elderly man sat down next to him. 

 

“Well, look at this! I remember taking you across when you left with that fellow, Duncan,” he said. “And now you’re a Grey Warden… my pap used to tell me stories about them.”

 

Tristan smirked as he recognized the ferryman that brought people to and from the tower. 

 

“Hello, Kester. Why aren’t you manning the boat?”

 

“Templars took her,” Kester told him.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“I don’t got a clue. They wouldn’t tell me. Greagoir just came down and said, ‘Don’t you worry, Kester. We’ve got it all under control, we do.’ Didn’t say nothing else. And then he puts Carroll in charge of my boat, Lissie! Named for my grandmum, she was.”

 

“Is there something going on up there at the tower?” Conrí asked, setting aside his ale.

 

“Like I said, they didn’t tell me nothing. And if I know them mages, I’m better off keeping out of their business. If I had to guess, I’d guess it had to do with magic. But the tower’s always got something to do with magic.”

 

“Is there no way to get across?”

 

“You could try swimming, but I don’t recommend it,” Kester quipped. “Nasty things in that lake. I reckon it’s all them potions they dump in there. Greagoir told me to stay here till it blows over. But I’m telling you, some storms don’t blow over easy.”

 

“We have to get to the tower,” Conrí muttered. “I could convince the Templars to let us in…”

 

“Maybe you could at that,” Kester chuckled. “I’m sure your mind’s all a-fire now, eh?”

 

“So you know Greagoir well?” Tristan asked.

 

“Oh I can’t say that,” Kester shook his head. “I’m lucky he’s good enough to give me the time of day. The First Enchanter’s all right. He’s polite as can be, but he’s always a little distant, if you get my drift. But Greagoir’ll stay to talk. I reckon he likes hearing from us common folk, you know.”

 

“What are you opinions of the Circle?”

 

“I reckon it’s good for you mages. Gather them all, learn them some proper magicks. I know what they say about mages but… the Maker made them for a purpose. If you can’t trust Him, who can you trust?”

 

Conrí glanced at the marked candle on the bar. 

 

“We best be getting to bed. Thank you for the information, Kester.”

 

Erin slid up to the bar as Kester left. 

 

“So… what do we do?”

 

“Get some sleep,” Conrí told her. “We’ll deal with the Templars in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, the Wardens gathered quickly. Noting that the boat near the pier was unlikely to hold them all, Conrí told Sten, Morrigan and Koun to stay behind. Blair said the same to Kiba.

 

“You!” barked the Templar manning the pier. This must be Carroll. “You’re not looking to get across to the tower are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass!”

 

“We are Grey Wardens, seeking the assistance of the mages,” Conrí told him.

 

“Oh, you’re a Grey warden are you?” Carroll sneered. “Prove it.”

 

Conrí sighed and pulled the mage treaty from his pack. 

 

“I have these documents here,” he said, handing the scroll to the Templar.

 

“Yes? Oh, a Grey Warden seal. A-ha. You are claiming to be one of those. You know, I have some documents, too. They say I’m the queen of Antiva. What do you think of that?”

 

Garik raised an eyebrow, “Aren’t queens female?”

 

“Don’t question royalty!” Carroll cried. “Anyway, it was nice chatting with you. Now on your way. Right now. Go.”

 

Conrí pinched the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Can’t we work something out?”

 

“That redhead there at the back… she doesn’t need to go to the tower, does she? Because it gets a little lonely out here sometimes… and you know, you could just leave her with me…”

 

“What?” Leliana squawked. “Er… no. I’m sorry, I’m… a poetess! And I’m not interested in anything you have to offer.”

 

“I’ve never met a poetess… the other men sometimes tell stories about them… when the knight-commander isn’t around. He doesn’t abide that sort of talk…”

 

“Pah,” Leliana scoffed with a smile. “The stories sheltered Templars tell will pale in comparison to mine. Would you like to hear my tales of debauchery and excess?”

 

“Y-yes… please?” Carroll stammered.

 

“I’m sure we could talk on that long, dull boat ride across the lake yes?”

 

“Er… yes, definitely? Are we going now?”

 

Conrí chuckled as Carroll all but sprinted to the boat. Garik tapped Leliana on the hip with the back of his fist. 

 

“Nice work, Red,” he said with a snicker. Leliana giggled.

 

The ride across the lake did take some time, but Leliana kept them all amused with the rather racy tales she told Carroll. The Templar was completely enthralled. 

 

Erin leaned closer to her brother and whispered into his ear, “Minstrel in Orlais… do you think…?”

 

“It’s possible,” Conrí muttered. “But if she was really here to spy on us, why had she been in the Chantry for two years? And in a backwater village like Lothering at that. I won’t rule it out yet, but it’s very unlikely.”

 

“Fair enough,” Erin sighed. Her brother had certainly developed mentally during his tenure as a Grey Warden. Must be the taint. Otherwise, he’d be as thick as I remember him.

 

* * *

 

“…and I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times,” an ageing man in Templar armor gave orders to a younger warrior. “Do not open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, ser,” the Templar made his way to distribute the man’s orders.

 

“The doors are barred,” Alistair mused. “Are they keeping people out? Or in?”

 

“What do you think?” Tristan snorted as he approached the Knight-Commander. “And I thought you were out of my life forever.”

 

“Well, look who’s back,” Greagoir grimaced. “A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you’re not dead.”

 

Tristan smirked. “Really?”

 

“Perhaps. Now, we’re dealing with a situation that doesn’t involve you, Grey Warden. I shall speak plainly; the tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls. We were too complacent. First Jowan, now this. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your role in Jowan’s escape.”

 

Tristan rolled his eyes.

 

“Sounds like the Templars haven’t been doing their jobs,” Erin sneered.

 

“My men did what they could,” Greagoir told her, surprised at the young woman’s tone. “They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations. Not the horde that fell on us.”

 

“And you’re still waiting here?” Alistair asked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

 

“It is our duty, as Templars, to watch the Circle tower. We will stand guard to make sure nothing leaves. Nothing. I would destroy the tower, raze it to the ground, but I cannot risk more of my men. The doors remain shut and they will protect us for now.”

 

Conrí was livid. “You shut everyone in there?!” he snarled. “Including innocent mages?”

 

“Not just mages,” Greagoir said grimly. “My Templars as well. I had no choice. The abominations must be contained at all costs.  We do not mean for the doors to remain closed forever. Everything in the tower must be eliminated.” 

 

The elder Templar turned to look back at the doors. “I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment-” Greagoir was cut off as he turned back by the shining steel fist of a Grey Warden.

 

Jaws dropped as Greagoir did. Conrí stomped on the old Templar’s chest, holding the man to the floor. “Typical Templars!” he spat. “Once something in their perfect world slips out of place, it’s time to cull an entire Circle!” he drew his frighteningly large sword and aimed it at a younger man who moved to assist his commander. 

 

The Templar halted, petrified by the unbridled hate in the piercing blue eyes of the large man in front of him.

 

“What is this Right of Annulment?” Tira asked.

 

“A power given by the chantry that lets these bastards have wholesale slaughter against the mages they trap to begin with,” Erin snarled. 

 

Tira looked horrified while Garik and Serena shot the Templars looks of disgust. “Is it not enough that you imprison those who happen to be born with the gift of magic?!” Tira cried.

 

“The mages are probably already dead,” Alistair tried to reason with his comrade. Conrí’s head swiveled to glare at Alistair. The former Templar swallowed hard, but continued regardless, “Any abominations in there must be dealt with, no matter what.”

 

“This situation is dire,” Greagoir wheezed. “There is no alternative.”

 

“The mages are far from defenseless,” Blair reasoned. “Some must live.”

 

“If any are still alive, the Maker Himself has shielded them,” Greagoir told her. “No one could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find… nothing.”

 

Conrí growled like a feral beast, “You shut them all in!”

 

“And what was I to do?! Leave the doors open as the abominations poured out?”

 

“He… he’s right,” Alistair groaned. “All the circles have doors like these, to prevent Abominations from… getting loose.”

 

“You can’t just cull the Circle,” Tristan snapped. “There are innocent people in there. Children!”

 

“These are not the mages you remember. They are abominations. To save their souls, you must harden your heart. It is the innocent folk of Fereldan that matter. I would lay down my life and life of any mage—” Greagoir tried, but was cut off by Conrí. 

 

“That’s exactly my problem with you Templars! You don’t see these mages as people,” he snorted. “We waste time. Open the doors. We will do what you and your men are too cowardly to do.” Conrí lifted his foot and strode towards the door.

 

“Once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back,” Greagoir told him.

 

Conrí turned slightly to stare at the Knight-Commander over his shoulder, “What else is new?”

 

* * *

 

Corpses, both of mages and Templars, bestrewed the halls. They lay where they had fallen, arms outstretched in a vain effort to defend themselves, staffs and swords clutched in the dead, vice-like grips, eyes staring blank but wide in horror at the sight of the last thing they beheld, whatever beast it may have been. Blood spattered nearly every wall, arterial spray having drenched the stone.

 

“How did this happen?” Leliana choked, aghast at the sheer level of carnage displayed around them.

 

“Well, we won’t find out by standing here...” Conrí began, before falling silent as his ears picked up shuffling through the next door.

 

“Survivors, perhaps?” Tira asked, picking up the same sounds.

 

“Well, let’s find out,” Erin replied, opening the door and looking in to see utter chaos within.

 

A pulse of fire at the far end of the room; children screaming, running for their lives from a strange creature, sinuous and serpentine, looking as though it were formed from living magma, glaring out at the world through eyes that were blazing red pinpricks of rage and hatred, looking for fresh victims, howling in deranged joy as all fled in terror before it...

 

All except one, that is.

 

A single mage, a woman of about sixty, clad in robes the same fiery red as the rage demon, stood between the monster and the crowd of children and teenage apprentices running from it. The demon gave another roar, charging towards the older woman standing before it, clawed hands forming from its lava-like body, reaching towards the mage, eager to rend and tear. But before it could, the mage incanted a phrase and waved a hand commandingly at the advancing demon, who shrieked in agony as a thick layer of ice and frost smothered its fiery form. The demon’s shrieks grew weaker and weaker as the flames of its existence were slowly put out, and the mage pressed her advantage; with a final blast of cold magic and an agonized wail of anger, the demon was gone, banished back to the Fade.

 

Exhaling a relieved sigh and wiping sweat from her brow, the older mage turned round...

 

And both she and the mage Warden started in shocked recognition.

 

“You? You’ve returned to the tower?” Wynne asked. “Why did the Templars let you through? Are you here to warn us?”

 

“I told Greagoir I would investigate the tower.”

 

“The Templars have barred the doors,” Wynne told him, her worry coloring her tone. “They will only open them if they intend to attack us. Is that what is happening?”

 

“No, they are waiting for reinforcements,” Tristan shook his head.

 

Wynne hung her head. “So Greagoir believes that the Circle is lost; he probably assumes we are all dead. They abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Rite, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

 

“How did this happen?” Leliana asked, shocked at the miniscule number of surviving mages, most of them youths barely out of their teens or children. A handful of more senior mages remained, but most were injured or comatose, requiring time to heal their injuries and recover their strength… time they didn’t have.

 

“Let it suffice to say we had… something of a revolt on our hands, led by a mage named Uldred,” Wynne spat the name as though it were something foul on her tongue. “When he returned from Ostagar, he tried to take over the Circle. As you can see,” she gestured to the blood-spattered walls and corpse-strewn halls. “It did not work out as he planned. I do not know what has become of Uldred, but I’m sure this is all his doing. I will not see the Circle destroyed because of one man’s pride and stupidity!”

 

“But then why are you still here?”

 

“I tried to get the children out, but the Templars had already locked the doors. I erected a barrier so that nothing could get through to harm us; you won’t be able to pass through it, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save the Circle.”

 

“But the Templars could attack at any moment!” Alistair added. “Trust me, I know the kind of people they’ll send from Denerim, and they won’t hesitate to kill everyone in their path because the Grand Cleric told them to!”

 

“True, we do not have much time, but once we secure the tower, I trust Greagoir will tell his men to back down,” Wynne said logically. “He’s not unreasonable.” 

 

“The Knight-Commander will only accept the First Enchanter’s word that it is over,” Conrí replied, eliciting a resigned sigh from Wynne before the old woman looked up, a resolute gleam in her eyes.

 

“Then our path is laid out before us. We must save Irving.” Turning her attention to several of the younger mages, she quickly issued commands for them to stay behind and protect the others unable to join their entry to the tower. 

 

At this, one of the mages she had addressed-a young woman with red hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing vivid yellow robes- piped up, “Wynne, are you sure you’re alright? You were so badly injured; maybe I should come along...” But the older woman shook her head.

 

“The others need you more. Stay here and guard the children.” 

 

Turning her attention back to Tristan and the others, she calmly spoke up, “If you are ready, then let us go end this.”

 

* * *

 

Conrí Cousland was beginning to get annoyed. The only ones who benefitted from such a delay were the Archdemon and the darkspawn.

 

“Look after her, please?” a female voice behind him asked, interrupting his mental diatribe. 

 

Conrí turned round to see the redhead mage who’d offered to go with Wynne. Up close, she looked barely older than seventeen and nothing short of afraid. Her eyes kept darting to Wynne, and Conrí could see the mage was deeply concerned for her senior counterpart.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I don’t know if she’s up to this, not after...what happened,” the girl replied. “Wynne’s the strongest person I know, but she’s only human.”

 

“What aren’t you saying?” Conrí asked. 

 

The girl’s look of unease only intensified. “I was on my way to the library, when a demon appeared; its eyes were aflame with evil, I was certain it was my death come upon me. And then Wynne was there; it was light, and fire, and chaos. And then the demon was gone. But Wynne wasn’t moving… I was so certain she’d died”

 

Conrí frowned, “Well, she seems to be ok...”

 

“Just be careful? She might be fine, but then she might not have come away from that unscathed...”

 

“Come on, we’re wasting time that the Circle does not have,” Wynne cut across the conversation. 

 

Conrí strode over to the doorway where Wynne stood with Leliana, Tira, Erin, Blair and Alistair. Serena and Garik were staying behind to help protect the surviving mages.

 

Garik had stated bluntly, “No offense, but the less we have to deal with magic, the better.”

 

At a snap of Wynne’s fingers, the glowing, translucent wall of blue energy dissipated and the group stepped through the doorway into the library. The second they were through, Wynne again snapped her fingers and the barrier reappeared. 

 

“That should protect them, should any demons or other fiends get past us,” Wynne explained. 

 

A gurgling roar cut off what she would have said next.

 

Emerging from hiding behind a bookcase, a twisted and bloated beast came before them. Conrí had laid eyes on darkspawn of all kinds, corrupted beasts and yet this monster was the most disgusting, disturbing thing he had ever laid eyes upon; the first true abomination he’d seen. The corrupting influence of the demon possessing whoever this poor individual had been had twisted their shape beyond all possible recognition; the flesh of the torso and shoulders had expanded to immense size, and taken a foul, twisted look. The mage’s spine and ribs were visible through its distorted flesh - in some places, the bones even protruded through the skin. Its hands and fingers had twisted into long, skeletal claws and its head... its head was the worst, twisted and mutated out of shape, only one eye, bloodshot and jaundiced, visible, the other hidden behind a growth of bloated muscle, a mouth distorted into a leering grin that stretched far too wide, baring teeth like a shark’s; curved, jagged and far too many crammed into one mouth.

 

The abomination roared, breaking into a run, claws outstretched. Wynne reacted quickly, shooting a bolt of arcane power at the beast, which staggered but continued to charge. As the creature’s claws came within reach of Wynne, Alistair acted; he slammed his shield into the creature’s side, sending the abomination crashing to the ground. Before it could recover, Conrí brought his Greatsword stabbing down into the abomination’s heart.

 

“We’ve got more company!” Alistair yelled as four more abominations emerged from a side chamber and attacked. 

 

The first abomination hit Alistair like an avalanche, slamming the Templar to the floor, but Alistair recovered more quickly, rolling aside as the creature stamped its foot down where his head had been, and blocking a downward swipe of the thing’s claws with his shield. Before it could attack again, Alistair stabbed out, driving Oathkeeper clean through the abomination’s chest; it screamed and fell to the floor with a spurt of dark blood.

 

The second abomination fought with Erin, the beast raking its claws across the woman’s side. She staggered, but as the possessed mage pressed its advantage, Erin ducked under another swipe of its hands, stabbing one sword into the abomination’s chest, before bringing the other to slash across the beast’s throat as its bloodshot eyes stared at her in shock. The abomination fell to its knees, its hands clutching its opened neck, energy curdling in its hands as it tried to heal its injury, and Erin reacted swiftly, driving the sword in her off-hand into the back of the abomination’s head, ending its existence.

 

Tira and Blair ducked and dodged around and under their opponent’s claws. The beast seemed to be getting more frustrated by the moment, and slashed even more vehemently. The wounds the elves had scored seemed to do little more than anger it. Leliana nocked and arrow and let it fly, piercing the Abominations face and punching out the back of its head. Tristan called on his ice magic, freezing the final creature in place before launching a Stonefist spell, and shattering it into a thousand bloody pieces.

 

“I never thought I’d say this,” Tristan panted. “But give me darkspawn over these creatures any day.”

 

“We have to hurry,” Conrí told him. “Surana, you and Wynne take point. You know the tower better than the rest of us.”

 

Rather than sneer as he normally would, Tristan nodded and cast an enchantment spell similar to the one used by the mage at the Tower of Ishal. However, the melee fighters’ weapons were wreathed in hoarfrost rather than flames. When Conrí gave a satisfied nod, the group continued.

 

* * *

 

They had reached the second floor of the tower when Conrí heard a noise; drawing his sword, he called out, “Whoever’s there, come out now!”

 

At this, a mage emerged from hiding behind a column and spoke in a plaintive voice, “Please refrain from going into the stockroom; ‘tis a mess and I’ve not gotten it into a state fit to be seen.”

 

“You’re cleaning? At a time like this?” was the incredulous reply. 

 

The mage seemed completely unconcerned by the situation, the spatters of gore and the corpses lying about the chamber, picking up a crate of deep mushrooms beside him and placed it on top of several others in a corner.

 

“The stock room is my responsibility; I must keep it clean,” was the blasé reply.

 

Conrí made to make another comment about this when a restraining hand placed itself on his shoulder. “He’s one of the Tranquil,” Wynne murmured. “The Tranquil don’t have emotions.”

 

“They used to be mages, but underwent a Rite to strip them of emotion,” Tristan grumbled. “Now they’re puppets of the Templars.” 

 

His words made Conrí and Erin scowl.

 

The man made what would perhaps be considered an emotional outburst, for a Tranquil at least. “I would prefer not to die. I would prefer for the tower to return to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”

 

“Niall? He’s still alive?” Wynne asked, a hopeful note in her voice. “What’s he trying to do, Owain?”

 

“I do not know,” the Tranquil replied. “But he came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla.”

 

“But that protects against mind domination,” Wynne questioned, a curious look on her face. “Is blood magic at work here?”

 

The Tranquil shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know,” he repeated, but Wynne was not listening, muttering to herself.

 

“Niall was at the meeting where this all began, he would know. Blood magic... I was afraid of this.” 

 

A moment’s silence followed before Wynne took charge again. “We should find Niall; the Litany will give us a fighting chance against any blood mages we encounter. Owain, go downstairs to the Apprentice Quarters, the survivors are gathering down there. Petra will let you through the barrier.”

 

* * *

 

The group crept through the abandoned halls of the second floor, ears alert for any sound. 

 

“Stop!” Conrí hissed. “Listen!”

 

Not far ahead, an argument seemed to be going on between a group of mages. 

 

“What are we doing?” a female voice asked. “Have you thought about it?”

 

“We’re making sure no one disrupts Uldred’s plans,” a waspish male voice responded.

 

“But he’s not Uldred anymore… I never wanted it to go this far,” the woman sighed.

 

“Neither did I,” a second male voice answered. “But this is what we’re fated with and…”

 

“Quiet, both of you!” the first man hissed. “I think I heard something. Keep your eyes open…”

 

Before the group could react, a Stonefist burst through the divider between the mages and the Wardens, smashing into Conrí, who flew back into Tristan. A man with long brown hair stole around the divider and raised his hand, a ball of lighting appearing in it. The blood dripping from his wrist showed what kind of magic was powering it.

 

“What are you doing, Severus?” the woman demanded, following her compatriot. “They’re not Templars, we don’t have to kill them!”

 

“I don’t care, Xolana!” the man bellowed back. “Why else would they be here? Maybe Greagoir’s using mercenaries to do the Order’s dirty work now!”

 

“They’re not here for us!” the woman snapped. “We’re wasting time here, time we need to get out!”

 

With a roar, Alistair drew on his training and unleashed a powerful blast of energy, dispelling the blood magic. The trio of mages were caught off guard for a moment… all the group needed to counterattack. Leliana seized her bow, notched and loosed two arrows together; they flew straight at the mage who’d been preparing to kill them, slamming into his eyes and punching out the back of the man’s head. The second male mage tried to defend himself, but before he could cast a spell, Conrí seized his belt knife and hurled it at him. The blade pierced his forehead and he dropped bonelessly to the ground, his face set in a look of shock. The woman could only stare in shock at the demise of her companions, before a crossbow bolt loosed by Alistair struck her in the hip, pitching her onto her back, coughing up blood as she landed heavily on the stone floor. Conrí got up, seizing his sword, but to his shock the woman cast aside her staff and crawled backwards.

 

“Please, please don’t kill me!”

 

“The people you murdered didn’t want to die either, blood mage!” Alistair replied coldly.

 

“I know I have no right to ask for mercy, but-but I didn’t mean for all this death and destruction. We were just trying to free ourselves! Uldred told us that the Circle would support Loghain and Loghain would help us be free of the Chantry! You don’t know what it was like; the Templars were watching, always watching...”

 

“And you thought turning to blood magic and murdering any who stood against you would improve things?” Alistair spat. “What you have done here will only make things worse for future generations of mages, not better!”

 

“The magic was a means to an end!” the woman snapped despite her fear, a spot of defiance entering her amethyst eyes. “It gave us, gave me, the power to fight for what I believed in!”

 

“Fighting for what you believe in is commendable Xolana Amell, but the ends do not always justify the means!” Wynne snapped curtly.

 

“You don’t honestly believe that, Wynne?” Xolana sneered at the elder mage. “Change rarely comes peacefully; Andraste waged war against the Imperium, she didn’t write them a strongly worded letter. She reshaped civilization, freed the slaves and gave us the Chantry, but people died for it… we thought someone has to take the first step, force a change… no matter the cost,” the woman trailed off, her earlier guilt reasserting itself.

 

“Nothing is worth what you have done to this place!” Wynne intoned angrily.

 

“Amell?” Tristan asked as he got to his feet.

 

“Surana? Wait… You’re Wardens?”

 

“Most of us,” Conrí allowed gripping his sword.

 

“But… why are you here?”

 

“We came here looking for mages to aid us against the blight,” Blair told her, her short bow nocked but lowered and not drawn.

 

“But why would the Templars let Wardens through during all this?”

 

“I made a… convincing argument,” Conrí growled. “But if they find out what you did up here… they might kill you, or more likely make you tranquil.”

 

Xolana’s eyes widened in horror and Leliana leapt to her defense. 

 

“She could make an appeal to the Chantry…”

 

“They’ll never take her, you know. They’re very picky about who they let in: murderers, harlots, yes. Maleficarum, oh no!” Alistair glibly replied, earning himself an angry glare from Leliana.

 

“Your comments betray your ignorance, Alistair. The Chantry accepts all, regardless of what they’ve done.”

 

Alistair scowled at the tone of her rebuke. “Well, it seems you’re familiar with a whole other Chantry, because the one I know wouldn’t hesitate to shove a sword of mercy right through her heart.”

 

“I feel inclined to agree with Alistair...” Tristan muttered to himself.

 

“Please…” Xolana muttered. “I just want my life.”

 

Before anyone could say anything more, Leliana intervened; kneeling beside the girl, she turned to Xolana and said simply, “Redeem yourself.”

 

“Redeem myself?” the mage woman replied, confusion overcoming terror. “How?”

 

“Do as the Wardens do. Fight darkspawn. Save lives,” was the reply.

 

“Fight darkspawn? But I’m... I’m a...”

 

“A mage,” Conrí told her, favoring his shoulder where one of Xolana’s compatriots had struck him with a Stonefist. “Wardens make use of any ally they can.”

 

“This is unwise; she is a blood mage, she has turned twice against the Circle,” Wynne protested. “You would be wise not to trust her, so why do you suggest we let her go?”

 

“As Conrí said, the Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could be found,” Blair replied. “And because she’s not a threat; if she was, she’d have attacked us, and fought and died with the others. A lie now would gain her nothing.”

 

Wynne sighed. “I suppose it is not my place to question the needs of your cause,” shaking her head disapprovingly as she turned away.

 

“No, it’s not,” Blair snipped. 

 

Tristan knelt next to Xolana, his hands glowing with eldritch blue light. Xolana hissed quietly as her skin knitted back together. “Thanks, Surana,” she mumbled.

 

“Don’t mention it, Amell,” Tristan smirked slightly. “We’re gonna have a long conversation when this is all over.”

 

She nodded. “What now?” Xolana Amell asked, getting to her feet and recovering her staff. “Am I to follow you?”

 

“Go downstairs to the Apprentice quarters; the survivors are gathering down there. Tell no one who you are,” Conrí told her. “We’ll deal with the Templars when this is over.”

 

The mage nodded, tears of gratitude now staining her makeup. “Yes. I will serve your cause in exchange for my life. Thank you, the Maker will surely turn his gaze on you for your mercy!” Xolana Amell called out as she ran for the staircase downstairs.

 

* * *

 

They stopped inside First Enchanter Irving’s office to rest for a moment and patch themselves up; more abominations, walking corpses and other horrors had blocked their path and though the fiends had been destroyed, it hadn’t been without cost. As Wynne worked her magic, fingers expertly pouring healing energy into their wounds, Alistair turned his attention to the older woman as she closed up a row of jagged teeth marks where an abomination had bitten through his bracer into his sword arm.

 

“How did this happen?” he asked, gesturing at the carnage outside. “I know you told me this Uldred is at the core of it, but what did he do?”

 

“Ah, that is a long story, child,” Wynne answered. 

 

“And like so many things happening in Ferelden at this moment, it has its origins in what happened that night at Ostagar. As you know, I was at that ill-fated battle, and I survived, though barely. I made it to Lothering, but I was in no state to travel further, so I stayed behind to recuperate, tend to the wounded and help those still present prepare to evacuate the village before the horde descended upon it. Uldred, however, got away much quicker; he was assigned to Loghain’s forces before the battle, and so he departed Ostagar when that traitorous cur left us and Cailan to die. He set off for the Circle immediately, to parrot the message his master had given him. By the time I returned, I discovered Uldred had all but convinced the Circle to join Loghain, the man who nearly destroyed us all!” Wynne spat angrily, before taking a deep breath to calm herself. “No, I cannot blame the Circle. Uldred had a persuasive argument, and how could they have known what Loghain did at Ostagar?”

 

“What did Loghain promise the Circle in exchange for their aid?” Erin asked.

 

“According to Uldred, the alliance with the new regime would be to the Circle’s advantage; once Loghain was in power, he would order the Chantry to give us more freedom.” 

 

Conrí exchanged significant looks with Erin and Tira; 

 

No wonder the Circle turned so willingly. Conrí thought to himself. Freedom from the overbearing surveillance of the Chantry, released from the presence and the threat of the Templars; Loghain had tempted the Circle with the best he could offer.

 

“Perhaps Loghain and this Uldred were in cahoots from the very beginning,” Alistair suggested.

 

Wynne nodded in agreement. “That is my suspicion; Uldred always desired power. He never mentored the apprentices, never taught. He never cared much for the Circle, only his own advancement. It would not surprise me to learn that Uldred had a deal with Loghain that would benefit himself; perhaps Loghain promised him the position of First Enchanter, once the Blight was dealt with. Not that any such deal will do him much good now!” Wynne finished rather smugly.

 

“What do you mean, what happened?”

 

“Uldred’s plans unraveled. When I got back and found out what was going on, I told First Enchanter Irving what Loghain did on the battlefield. I revealed the ‘Hero of River Dane’ for the traitorous bastard he is! Irving said he would take care of it; he called a meeting to deal with Uldred, but something… something must have gone wrong,” Wynne trailed off, an apprehensive look of regret crossing her face.

 

“What happened at the meeting?

 

“I do not know, I wasn’t there; I was still meant to be recuperating. I emerged from my quarters when I heard the screams. They were coming from the meeting room, and it wasn’t long before I saw the first abomination, running down a mage. It deteriorated quickly after that.”

 

“And what about Irving?” Alistair pressed.

 

“I found Petra, and we were trying to fight our way to the meeting room, when we saw Irving. He was battling a terrifying abomination; as he and that beast battled to the death, he told me to get as many as I could to safety. That... that was the last time I saw Irving...” Wynne trailed off sadly.

 

“So he could be dead, and with him, any chance of the Circle’s support?” Conrí growled.

 

“I refuse to believe that,” Wynne replied, a fiery look entering her eyes. “If anyone could survive this, it is he!”

 

Tristan barely heard her, taking an angered kick at a heavily damaged wooden chest in a corner to alleviate his frustrations. The force of the blow toppled the chest, sending its contents spilling across the floor; parchment scrolls, treatises and studies, all manner of papers related to the business of the Circle... and half-buried under all the debris, an ornate tome, bound in black leather. The words ’Liber Magus’ had been engraved into the front cover, beneath the image of a leafless tree. The sight caused him to remember something...

 

“I have a thought,” Morrigan said the night before as Tristan left his room.

 

“Just the one?” he asked.

 

A sarcastic laugh escaped the witch’s lips, “Such wit, truly! You and Mother should form a troupe of jesters and tour the countryside!” The smile disappeared and Morrigan swiftly became all business. “To the point, my mother was once divested of a particular grimoire of hers by a rather bothersome Templar. It happened long before I was born, but to this day, Flemeth speaks of the loss with great rage. ‘Tis most likely that such an object ended in the possession of the Circle, and it seems to me we have an opportunity to recover it.”

 

“What makes you think the Mages still have this book?”

 

“Flemeth is a sorceress of legend, is she not?” Morrigan reasoned. “And her grimoire would be more than a mere curiosity to the mages that daren’t even glance towards the places my mother has walked for eons. No doubt ‘tis considered something dangerous, perhaps best locked away somewhere dark, yes? And if not? Then at least I know it does not exist. But there is no harm in looking, surely?”

 

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

 

“I did not think of it, earlier,” Morrigan huffed. “Truly, Mother had assumed for a long time that the tome was lost forever. I only remembered it now after thinking what treasures might be found.”

 

“Very well. I will look in the tower should I find the opportunity.”

 

“Good. I am eager to see its contents.”

 

Shaking off the memory, Tristan gingerly picked up the heavy tome, rewrapping it in the simple cloth that half covered the book and after looking round to make sure the others weren’t looking. Alistair was turned away, using a whetstone to repair the cutting edge of his sword, while Wynne was attending to Leliana’s injuries, both women distracted. Conrí himself was leafing through an old tome on the history of the Circle. Tristan quickly deposited into his backpack before the others could see it; he didn’t expect they’d look kindly on riffling through the First Enchanter’s chest.

Setting the book aside and turning about, Conrí cleared his throat to get their attention.

 

“Is everyone alright?” he asked. 

 

Receiving nods from the others, Conrí slung his pack back on his shoulders and replied, “Then let us finish this.”

 

* * *

 

Racing up through the upper levels of the tower, the grotesque spectacles only grew worse. Uldred and his cronies had left no part of the tower untouched; the evidence of their handiwork was everywhere. Packs of abominations roaming the tower at will, shades and spirits and worse, unbound demons hungry for the life force of mortals to gorge themselves upon. Even more horrifying were those who’d given in to such predations willingly; Templars who came to arms, defending the demon in their midst as though it were a wife or child. 

 

“Poor souls,” Leliana murmured “They could not resist whatever temptations the demon presented them with.”

 

“Great irony; the Templars go on about mages being unable to resist the temptations demons offer, only to succumb themselves,” Erin muttered. “Morrigan would have had a field day with this!”

 

“We must hurry,” Wynne desperately exhorted, gesturing to the door ahead of them. “Through there are the creature containment pens and the Harrowing Chamber; those are the only possible places left where Uldred and his lackeys could be hiding...” 

 

Her voice faltered as she and the others realized their path forward was blocked.

 

“Oh look, visitors,” a thick, burbling voice rasped. 

 

Another of the abominations haunting the tower, another bloated hulk of exposed muscle and twisted bone, stood before them, glowering at them through one jaundiced, slit-pupilled eye, the other hidden behind a growth of twisted, cancerous flesh. A mage, a man of middle years, lay at the creature’s feet, whether unconscious or dead they couldn’t tell, a scroll of parchment clutched in his hand. 

 

“I’d entertain you, but,” the creature gave a weary sigh. “Too much effort involved.”

 

“Good,” Conrí snarled at the monster. “That should make you easier to kill!” 

 

He raised his sword and made to charge forward... and came to a juddering stop. He was suddenly so tired; his arms felt like lead, and his sword... 

Andraste’s ass, when did this thing get so heavy?

 

“But why?” the creature asked plaintively. 

 

“Aren’t you tired of all the violence in the world? I know I am...” it said with another weary exhalation. 

 

The little of the thing’s mouth they could see curved into a devious smile, baring yellowed, blood-spattered teeth that clearly belonged to whatever demon had possessed the mage and it raised a clawed hand. “

 

Wouldn’t you like to just lie down and forget about all this? Leave it all behind?”

 

A nimbus of light formed in the creature’s palm but before any of the companions could react to it, the light leapt from the abomination’s hand and fell to the floor, spreading into a thick miasma that began to slither across the floor towards them. Tristan had no idea what it was, but he could tell it would be nothing good.

 

As it reached Tristan’s legs, the feeling of exhaustion that had stopped Conrí from cutting the demon down where it stood only intensified, and judging from the reactions of his companions, he wasn’t the only one affected. 

 

“Can’t keep eyes open,” Alistair mumbled, sliding down the wall and vainly trying not to yawn. “Someone... pinch me...” 

 

His voice trailed off as he fell to the floor in a sitting position, eyes closed.

 

Leliana was trying to back out of the room, her hands over her ears, trying not to breathe in the heavy fog. 

 

“I’ll not listen to your lies, demon. You have... no power over me,” the bard snapped, but before she could escape, Leliana inadvertently backed into and tripped over the prone form of Alistair. 

 

The Orlesian went down, out before she hit the ground, lying in a tangled heap atop the sleeping Templar.

 

Erin fell next, her swords clattering to the ground as she slid down the wall between Tira and Blair, both struggling to keep their eyes open. Conrí leaned against a bookshelf, shaking his head as if to clear it of water. But even he soon dropped to the ground, fast asleep.

 

Wynne was the only one besides Tristan left on her feet, and even then only barely, using her staff to stay upright and desperately projecting a shield of arcane energy against the magic spilling from the demon’s claws. 

 

“Resist, you must resist, else we are all lost!” she cried. 

 

The demon laughed mockingly at this, shaking its head sadly as though amused by their foolishness.

 

“Why do you fight? You deserve more. You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you.”

 

Before the Warden mage could take a turn for another attack, the weary feeling intensified, causing him to topple forward to land face down on the bloody floor, out before he hit the ground.

 


	15. Tears of the Fade

 

Conrí regained consciousness slowly. His eyes cracked open, and he winced at the blinding light flooding through his shutter less window. His head was pounding as he sat up. “Maker’s ass,” he muttered, groping for the hangover potion he kept in his bedside drawer. “I guess I really shouldn’t have mixed whiskey and brandy last night…”

 

The potion took its time taking effect, but eventually he managed to pry himself from his comfortable bed. He looked around his room; to his surprise, not much was out of place, despite his no doubt random stumbling the night before… or maybe Sten had dragged him to his room.

 

Conrí frowned. Sten? Who the Void is that? He shook his head to clear it and threw on his armor. Deciding he might want some weapon practice before lunch, he grabbed his Greatsword as well.

 

He met Erin out in the hall, look much in the same state as he. “What happened last night?” she asked, taking the offered potion.

 

“After the fifth glass of brandy… or was it sixth… I don’t remember much of anything…”

 

“Me either…” Erin groaned. “Let’s get some food… if my stomach wants to stop roiling that is…”

 

The twins managed to stumble down to the dining hall, finding most of their family. Fergus snickered as the pair sat gingerly in their seats, both still sensitive to light and sound. “Well, my dear siblings finally decide to join us. I take it last night’s fun has caught up with you?”

 

“To say the least…” Erin mumbled.

 

“You know, the Couslands have a great hangover remedy,” Fergus continued, a sly smirk on his face. “It’s a greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ash-tray.”

 

“Oh, I hate you!” Conrí groaned, resting his head on the table.

 

“I know you do,” Fergus laughed. 

 

“That’s enough, Fergus,” Eleanor scolded laughingly. “Both of you, eat your porridge. We’ll see how you feel afterwards.”

 

The twins obey their mother, tucking into their bowls. “This might sound odd,” Erin said after a few spoonfuls. “But I find myself unable to think of what warranted such celebration last night.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Bryce chuckled as he joined the table. “Considering between you both you’d consumed enough spirits to topple an ogre. It was quite an event. The battle at Ostagar went well. The Archdemon made its appearance and was struck down by your fellows. The Wardens even went so far as to set the tunnels ablaze. King Cailan was ecstatic at the chance to fight alongside you.”

 

Briefly, the vision of a very different scene haunted him, but with a shake of his head the fleeting image left Conrí. The pressure in his head that had persisted since he had risen intensified briefly.

 

“Highever threw you lot one hell of a celebration,” Fergus went on. “I think the king is still passed out upstairs. He drank more than either of you, and that is saying something.”

 

“He did provide some amusing entertainment, though,” Eleanor chuckled. “Dancing alongside that Grey Warden, Alistair. From what I know of the lad, I think he’d have been a bit too shy had he not ingested an entire bottle of whiskey. I’d never seen Commander Duncan laugh so hard.”

 

Conrí frowned slightly, his memory foggy. He pulled his Warden’s Oath from under his armor. What would he do now? He’d joined the Wardens to fight the darkspawn and to keep his family safe. What was his purpose now? For all his hopes that the Blight would be ended quickly, he hadn’t truly expected it. Come to think of it… he couldn’t remember the battle.

 

A piercing pain went through his skull. He groaned, dropping his spoon and hunching over. “Conrí!” Erin cried, moving to assist her sibling when a pain lanced through her head.

 

When the pain subsided, Conrí rubbed his temples. His eyes snapped open. I… I remember… Mother… Father… Howe! Howe betrayed us! Killed them! Ostagar was a slaughter! Cailan… This… this is a lie. Wait… we were at the Circle tower…. Conrí’s eyes rolled to look at his sister, finding her staring at him, her eyes alight with fury and pain.

 

“No…” Conrí rumbled.

 

“What’s that, son?” Bryce… or rather, the thing wearing his face, asked.

 

“This is wrong… Ostagar was no victory… Cailan… Duncan… all the others are dead… The tower…. That damn demon!”

 

The creature that looked like his father glared. “You shouldn’t have remembered. Both of you would have been safe and happy here. But it seems your pride will not allow it.”

 

“Silence!” Conrí roared, springing to his feet and drawing his sword. “I will not stand here and allow you to tarnish the memory of my family!”

 

“Nor will I!” Erin hissed, flourishing her twin blades. The world around them began to warp and change. If they cared to look out the windows, and at the moment they didn’t, they would have seen the castle was on a floating island in the middle of a hazy void, and in the distance was another castle on island with black spires jutting from the surface. The Black City. They were in the Fade.

 

The demon resembling Fergus leapt over the table swinging his sword. Conrí blocked the blade with his gauntlet, rammed the pommel of his sword into the gut of the demon before pivoting on his heel and piercing the blade through his brother’s Doppelganger. The Eleanor look-alike drew a long, wicked dagger and swung at Erin. Erin raised her arm and trapped the demon’s in against her body before driving her main-hand sword through the demons chest. 

 

While Erin dispatched the creature with her mother’s face, Conrí was swinging his claymore at the beast that wore his father’s form with intent to kill. He finally managed to sweep his blade at an angle that severed the creature’s leg. The beast fell, crying out in agony. 

 

“Please pup, don’t do this...” the demon-Bryce pleaded as Conrí moved to stand over it. Conrí said nothing, raising his sword. “My master can give you whatever you want… anything you wish,” the demon made one last plea, but Conrí was unmoved.

 

“What I want back, you cannot give me,” he growled, plunging his blade through the demon’s head.

 

The twins stood where they are for a long moment before turning to each other. Conrí let his sword stand where it was and made his way to his panting and trembling sister. When he came within arm’s reach, Erin dropped her swords with a sob. Conrí pulled her into his arms and the pair collapsed. Erin’s quiet sobs racked her frame as she clutched her brother. Conrí gripped her tighter, tears pouring down his own face. 

 

Wounds that had barely stopped bleeding and had not yet even begun to heal had been torn open again. The pain they had tried so hard to ignore had come back in full force. Their parents were dead… many of their childhood friends… Ser Gilmore… Even Fergus might be gone…

 

The twins, the last two of House Cousland, had never felt so alone.

 

* * *

 

After many long minutes the pair separated. If they were trapped in the Fade, odds were the others who had been with them were as well. With one last sorrowful look back at the ruined mockery of their home, the twins stepped through the main doors and into the Fade proper. This being the first time they had been in the Fade aware, the pair couldn’t help but look around in wonder. Books and lectures had done little justice to the amazing, yet terrifying world they now strolled through. All around were islands, each of varying size and elevation compared to the one they stood on. 

 

“Is… is this what a mage experiences every time they sleep?” Erin asked.

 

“I’d imagine so…” Conrí murmured. 

 

“Who are you?” asked a voice.

 

The twins spun to face the newcomer, weapons drawn.

 

* * *

 

A hulking golem backhanded a shade into oblivion as a floating corpse froze a rage demon in place with a wave of its hand. The corpse raised its hand again. With a hiss, it clenched its fist, psychically crushing the frozen demon into shards. After being sure there were no more demons around, the unusual pair nodded to each other, and in a flash of light, Conrí and Erin took the place of the golem and Arcane Horror respectively.

 

After speaking to Niall, the mage they encountered in the Raw Fade, the pair had made their way to each of the islands surrounding what Niall told them must be Sloth’s location. On each island they found other dreamers trapped by Sloth, and they gave the twins powers to take other forms. They were on the final island that was locking the way to the demon. 

 

Conrí kicked down a door. Standing over a dead templar in the middle of the room was a female demon. She smirked and cackled. “Catch me if you can!” she taunted before morphing into a mouse and scurrying down a nearby hole.

 

“Come on!” Conrí barked, changing again, this time to the first form he and Erin learned. A pair of mice followed their quarry down the hole.

 

“The game isn’t over mortals,” the Pride demon cackled as they returned to their true forms. 

 

“It seems we disagree on that point,” Conrí growled, drawing his Greatsword.

 

“You and your master will pay for what you did here,” Erin snapped, rolling her shoulders before settling into a fighting stance. 

 

The demon chuckled. “We shall see. I am not like the others you’ve slain here, mortals. You have no chance against Vereveel!”

 

Despite the demon’s bravado, the fight that followed was almost pathetically easy. They found the demon to be very susceptible to spirit based attacks, so a double teamed Crushing Prison from their Spirit forms nearly reduced the creature to a paste. 

 

The pair barely spared the dead demon a glance before moving towards the pedestal that had materialized near the back of the room. The symbol for the island they were on was now glowing brightly. Conrí frowned as he noticed several more glowing symbols encircling the ones they had used to find Sloth’s lieutenants. “Look at this,” he said, pointing them out. “What are they, do you think?”  


“Other islands, maybe?” Erin guessed. “The one…” she swallowed hard. “The one we were on is here,” Erin pointed to the symbol closest to the top. “And that means the others might be on these,” her finger trailed along the outer rim of the symbols.

 

“So, we just pick one,” Conrí sighed. “You ready?”

 

Erin nodded and the twins both put a finger on the symbol. After a moment, the symbol began glowing brightly just as the others had. Another moment and a swirling vortex of violet light surrounded them and the pedestal.

 

* * *

 

Blair stood with her hands behind her back, watching her newest recruits. They were good, but could still use the training she would provide. “Come on; left, right, parry!” she barked, sternly watching the men train. “That's the spirit!” She occasionally stepped in to correct someone’s stance or grip.

 

A soldier under her command ran up, stopping only to salute. “Commander Tabris, ser!” he barked. “You have a pair of visitors. I told them you were busy, but they insisted. Should I have them escorted away?”

 

Blair frowned slightly. “Insisted? Well, if it is so important, who are they?”

 

“They claimed to be Grey Wardens, Ser.”

 

“Ah...” Blair sighed slightly. “Yes, then it is important. Send them here,” She turned back to the recruits. “Continue your training. I will be back shortly.” She stood a few steps away so she could speak in privacy with her guests.

 

As Blair expected, Conrí and Erin Cousland entered the courtyard. “Blair,” Conrí greeted her extending his hand. “Glad to see you're alright.”

 

Blair gave a small smile. “Of course I am. It is good to see that you are both well, too.”

 

“I understand you're busy,” Conrí prompted. “But could you spare a few moments to speak?”

 

“The recruits can look after themselves for a while, yes,” Blair noted the soldier still standing around awkwardly, waiting for orders. “That will be all, thank you - return to your duties.”

 

“Ser!” the soldier saluted and walked back into the training area.

 

“Things have been going well for you,” Conrí commented.

 

“They have,” Blair allowed herself a rare true smile. “At least in a dream we're entitled to happiness, isn't that so?”

 

Conrí sighed. “So you know. And yet you remain.”

 

“Can you blame me?” Blair asked. “Look, Conrí,” she gestured around her at the courtyard. “Look around you. Look what you see. I remember very well where I come from, and that this cannot be. Yet, this is all I ever wanted. Do I believe it to be real? No. Yet it is the most beautiful and tempting of fantasies... and I am sorry, but I do not wish to leave it.”

 

Erin sighed wearily. “Blair, we understand where you're coming from. Our dream... was not so different,” Erin glanced at her brother. “We were back in Highever. Howe's attack never happened, the Blight was ended at Ostagar... our parents were still alive... but it was a lie... We had to kill our brother... Our parents...” she sniffed and shook her head to fight tears. “I know they were naught but demons in disguise, but it still cut deep.”

 

“I am sorry to hear that,” Blair told her sympathetically. “I know you have gone through a lot... and there is more yet to come, if you truly intend to return to fighting the blight.”

 

Conrí grimaced. “You intend to remain here.” It wasn't a question.

 

“I am sorry.” Blair seemed genuinely apologetic, but she hadn’t changed her mind.

 

Conrí shook his head. “You know, we haven't known each other longer than a month, but I never thought you weak, Blair.”

 

Blair frowned, a bit offended and hurt. “Weak? You think me weak for wishing to remain here?”

 

“Wishing? No,” Conrí growled. “I think you weak for choosing to remain here. If you do, the Sloth demon will sap you of your vitality until you're nothing but a memory.”

 

“I... that...” Blair seemed irritated at the logic she was being presented with.

 

“You have a family waiting for you in Denerim, no?” Conrí pressed on. “What was your cousin's name? Shianni? Would she be pleased to see you willing to cast your life aside for a fever dream?”

 

“I...” the fight left Blair, her shoulders slumped. “You are right... so right. How could I have been so blind...?” she took one final wistful look at her most desired dream, then fire returned to her eyes. “Commander... lead on. How do we get out of here?”

 

“There's some kind of pedestal back there,” Erin jerked her head toward the way she and Conrí had come.

 

“Commander, where are you going?” the soldier from before had wandered back over to them.

 

“I have... something important to attend to. Do tell the king I will...” Blair shook her head. “What am I even doing? What point is there continuing these fake conversations with the demons?

 

“Come, commander,” the demon implored. “You're happy here. Didn't we give you everything you wanted in life?”

 

“Yes, that you did,” Blair slowly drew her wicked blades. “And yet... it seems duty in the physical world calls.”

 

The soldier sighed and his voice toke on a demonic double pitch. “A shame. Our master worked so hard for you.” More soldiers poured into the courtyard from behind the trio of Wardens. “Kill them!”

 

“It seems they won't let us go without a fight, Conrí!” Blair flipped her blades one more time and ducked into fighting stance, ready to defend against the onslaught.

 

“I suspected as much,” Conrí smirked. “We have little time. Erin, you take Spirit, I’ll take Golem.” Erin nodded and transformed alongside her brother.

 

Blair’s eyes widened slightly. “That... well,” she chuckled. “That would come in handy.” Already the demons were upon her and the fighting began. Blair’s daggers danced in her hands as she cut through the creatures.

 

Conrí swung a heavy stone arm in an arc at a group of demons, sending them flying, hitting walls, weapon racks and training dummies. Erin hissed and sent a stream of icy wind at another group, freezing them solid, helpless as to stop Conrí’s battering ram-like punches while Blair tore through some of the recruit-looking demons with mumbles of, “I'm sorry,” and “Forgive me.”

 

Conrí grabbed the last demon in his granite fists, lifted it above his head and bent it in half backwards. Once he and Erin were sure there were no more demons present, the twins shifted back., “Come on. We'll show you how the pedestal works. Sooner we have everyone, the better.”

 

Blair nodded, wiped her blades clean and sheathed them. “Yes, let us not dally.”

 

“It's rather straight forward, really,” Conrí commented. “I thought magic was supposed to be convoluted... Anyway, just press your finger to a rune and off you go. We're going in order along these,” he pointed out the runes on the outer rim of the rough circular top. “Your island is here,” he pointed to the first rune. “So, we head here next,” he finished, gesturing to the rune next to Blair’s.

 

“Well, then what are we waiting for?” Blair asked, reaching out. Conrí and Erin followed her example, each pressing a finger to the rune.

 

* * *

 

Conrí glanced about him. He’d only seen paintings of this place, but he was almost certain he and the others stood in Weisshaupt.

 

Several long tables were laid out within the Great Hall, a number of Wardens taking a morning repast, but the figure he was looking for was sat at the far end of the table to his left. Duncan…. Or rather… a creature taking his shape. His feet rested on the table, and an amused smile crossed his lips as he sipped what looked to be freshly squeezed orange juice from his goblet.

 

“Good of you to join us, Blair, Erin, Conrí. I trust my summons hasn’t distracted you for your… important affairs, Lieutenant?” Duncan questioned, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. Conrí rolled his eyes, with a minor blush. Of course these creatures would know of his youthful… adventures. And he hadn’t really refrained since his joining… there was that rather attractive archer at Ostagar.

 

“Well, well, well” a familiar voice from behind him spoke in a jovial tone. “What have we here?”

 

“Alistair!” Conrí crowed, relieved. “When’d you get here?”

 

“Less than an hour ago; business in Denerim went smoothly, and Cailan’s as happy to see me as ever, but it’s good to be back somewhere they don’t look at Wardens with suspicion. I’ll say this for the Anderfells; at least us Wardens always get a good reception here!” Alistair joked.

 

“It’s good to see you again, Alistair. I’m sure you’ll come to enjoy Weisshaupt as much as the others do,” Duncan smiled placidly, turning his attention back to the Cousland youth. “You’ve been here for a good few months, haven’t you, Conrí? You like it here, don’t you?”

 

“Aye, it’s a beautiful fortress,” Conrí agreed, hoping to ease Alistair back into reality. He was a good lad, but shocking him wouldn’t be good. “Not that I’m eager to leave this place, but when will I be assigned back to active duty? I’ve never been one to sit idle for any length of time, and I imagine there are still darkspawn out there in need of a sword through the heart!” 

 

Duncan looked at him askance and spoke in a concerned tone, but the worry didn’t reach his eyes. “Conrí, are you feeling well? You must remember the darkspawn are gone. You were there at the last great battle. Surely you must remember? The great victory at Ostagar? Ah, that was a triumph for us all,” Duncan smiled, admiring the mosaic of Dumat’s death. “Bringing down the archdemon, chasing those vermin back into the Deep Roads and setting their underground lairs ablaze once and for all!” Duncan concluded, turning his attention to Alistair. “Help me, remind him what happened.”

 

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, and then fell silent, looking utterly confused. “That’s strange...it’s really fuzzy.”

 

Seeing the opportunity, Blair pressed on. “But what will become of the Grey Wardens now?”

 

“The Grey Wardens shall be keepers of history.” Duncan’s gaze had returned to them, the tone of his voice firmly indicating that Blair should already know the answer to her question. “We shall tell tales and sing songs of a more tumultuous time, that others may rejoice in knowing that time is past.”

 

Erin smirked, seeing Alistair’s expression shift to one of suspicion. She had not known Duncan very long, but from what she could remember, the Warden Commander was a warrior and a crusader who would never willingly set aside his charge. 

 

“The Duncan I know would not rest upon his laurels,” Conrí growled.

 

The Warden-Commander sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. His expression was now benevolent and amused, like a father watching his son trying to play at grown-ups. “The Duncan you knew was a man forged in the fires of war. I am different now, at peace. I have learned to be tranquil.”

 

There were a great many words Conrí knew he could use to describe Duncan, but tranquil was certainly not one of them. The Duncan he knew, the one who had constantly reminded all of the threat posed by the Blight, would never simply assume the threat was over. Even if the Blight was ended and the darkspawn were pushed back, he would remain vigilant, ever wary that they might return and ready for the day that they did. The Duncan Conrí knew would never dismiss the threat in so blasé a manner.

 

“The darkspawn will never truly be gone; two more Old Gods remain, and while they live, so too will the threat of the Blights,” Conrí snapped. “It is reckless and arrogant to assume the darkspawn are gone; the kingdoms of Thedas did that after the Fourth Blight, and look what came of it!”

 

At this, Duncan looked round and actually glared at him. Conrí stood his ground at the baleful look in the older Warden’s eyes, and that was when he saw it; Duncan’s eyes had acquired a malevolent gleam that looked all too familiar...

 

“Foolish child. I have given you so much and you cast it back in my face. Can you not be content with the peace I offer?”

 

It was no longer Duncan speaking, but something behind him, operating the Warden like a puppet. The voice had taken on the familiar echo and Conrí’s hand quickly moved to the hilt of his claymore. He looked Duncan in the eye. “You offer complacency, not peace.”

 

The hall shimmered as Duncan got to his feet, a look of fury on his face. The mask the demon wore was slipping; Duncan’s brown eyes had become cold black orbs, devoid of pupil or iris, and his teeth had become jagged and curved, more like those of a shark… or an abomination. The demon-Duncan spat hatefully at Conrí’s feet and rasped, “It seems only war and death with satisfy you. So be it. Have your war and your darkspawn – may they be your doom!”

 

Duncan’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and Conrí prepared himself for the attack. But before either of them could move, the blade of a sword erupted from Duncan’s chest. The older Warden gasped in shock, choking up blood that spilled down his beard and chin and spreading across his armor like a blooming rose; he and Conrí looked round, both stunned to see that the sword was in the hands of Alistair.

 

“Why?” Duncan, or the thing pretending to be Duncan, spoke in a weak voice. “Why would you do this?”

 

“Because you’re not Duncan” Alistair replied in a flat voice. “I remember now. Ostagar, Cailan, Loghain… Duncan. Duncan is dead. You are not Duncan! Just an empty, horrid thing wearing his image!”

 

The demon-Duncan snarled angrily and tried to turn on Alistair, but before it could, a Greatsword slashed out and severed the fiend’s head. The decapitated body remained upright for a moment, then it and Duncan’s severed head collapsed into dark mist that quickly dissipated into nothing.

 

“Blast, how did I not see…” Alistair muttered. To his fellows shock, Alistair’s body started becoming transparent. Wait! Where are you going? What’s happening to me? Hey!” Alistair called out, but the others had no time to reply or help him before Alistair vanished altogether.

 

“What on earth?” Erin asked. “Why did he vanish like that?! Is he alright?”

 

“Hopefully we’ll find out soon…” Conrí muttered.

 

* * *

 

The trio was standing on the island in the middle of Lake Calenhad, rain pouring down heavily, and the tower loomed overhead. Conrí had a strong suspicion who he would find trapped here.

 

But as they began to approach the tower, the Wardens could clearly see something was very wrong; the tower was a ruin. The upper levels of the tower were gone, ripped away by something of incredible strength and power. It burned, even in the pouring rain. Whether from magic, or dragon’s fire, they couldn’t hazard a guess. As far as they could see through the rain pelting down, bodies littered the ground. The armored and robed corpses of templars and mages, the malformed bodies of abominations and lifeless bodies just as unnerving and familiar. The corpses of genlocks and Hurlocks. 

 

And even though it was raining, the sky above was the deep red of an open wound. In its present state, the Circle had never stood a chance against the Blight. The Circle had been destroyed.

 

That was when Conrí realized the demon hadn’t trapped Wynne in a dream involving her fondest wishes; she was trapped in her worst nightmare. At that, Conrí quickened his steps. We have to find Wynne and get her out of here as soon as possible, he thought.

 

It didn’t take them long to find Wynne, alone outside the main entrance to the tower, on her knees, surrounded by the bodies of several young mages. The corpses of several templars also lay ranged outside the entrance, surrounded by the bodies of a score of darkspawn, though whether the templars had cut down the mages and then been set upon by the darkspawn, or died trying to protect their charges from the monsters, Conrí couldn’t tell. Sat alone in the middle of the carnage was Wynne, on her knees in the mud, her hair wet and disheveled, tears streaming down her face as she cradled the body of a young male elf in her arms, rocking the body and sobbing quietly to herself.

 

“Maker, I failed them. They died and I did not stop it.”

 

“But they’re not dead, Wynne. The Circle can still be saved,” Conrí reasoned, but Wynne would not be comforted.

 

“What about all this? How can you say that when you are faced with all this?” she sobbed. “Death. Can’t you see it? It’s all around us. Why was I spared if not to help them? What use is my life now I have failed in the task that was given to me?” she murmured to herself, ignoring the Warden as she shifted through the detritus, shifting aside weapons and corpses until she found a shovel. Getting to her feet, ignoring the Wardens, Wynne began to dig into the wet earth.

 

“Leave me to my grief,” she said over her shoulder, not bothering to look at him. “I shall bury their bones, scatter their ashes and mourn their passing until I too am dead.”

 

“Oh for the love of the Maker, this pity for demons is really starting to get tiresome,” Erin snapped, hoping to get a reaction out of the old mage that might snap her out of her self-pity. At this, Wynne whirled round, a look of outrage in her eyes and magical power coalescing in her hands. Erin felt a little unease at the sight but she couldn’t back down; to do so would leave Wynne to the demon’s mercy.

 

“Your blatant disregard for the souls of the dead strikes me as utterly inappropriate. And where were you when this happened?” she snapped as an afterthought, glaring at the three Wardens. “I trusted you as allies and you were nowhere to be found!”

 

“Wake up!” Conrí roared. “Can’t you tell this is the Fade? Are you a mage or not?”

 

This time, Conrí could see his words had had an effect; the anger on Wynne’s face faded, replaced by uncertainty. She began to look around her surroundings, examining them as though she had never seen them before.

 

“The… the Fade? I had not considered that; I have always had an affinity for the Fade, and I assumed I would be able to recognize it,” The old mage placed her hand to her brow, as though suffering a severe headache. “It is… difficult to focus… I’ve never had such trouble concentrating… it’s as if something is blocking me… perhaps some time away from here will do me good.”

 

Before they could do anything, the young elf mage whom Wynne had been holding sat up, in spite of a gaping wound in his chest. His eyes were pleading, but Blair could see they were pupil-less black orbs; this was no innocent apprentice.

 

“Don’t leave us, Wynne!” the apprentice whimpered, extending a hand in entreaty. “We don’t want to be alone!” he gestured to a number of other apprentices, getting back to their feet in spite of the fatal wounds they had suffered.

 

“Holy Maker! Stay away, foul creature!” Wynne yelped in horror, holding her staff in a threatening manner but the demons masquerading as her former charges didn’t heed the warning.

 

“Stay, Wynne. Sleep soundly in the comforting embrace of the earth. Do not fight it, you belong here… with us...” the demon-elf finished with a sad, pitying sigh.

 

“No, my task is not done… it is not yet my time!” Wynne yelled as she shot an arcane bolt at the elf, blasting the creature into pieces. Conrí drew his sword and motioned for the others. “Let us finish this and be done.”

 

It was over in less time than it had taken to convince Wynne to leave; the demons were as adept at combat as the apprentices they had impersonated, and could only use the most rudimentary magic. Wynne summoned torrents of ice and frost to entrap the demons, long enough for Conrí, Erin and Blair to sever heads, slash throats and pierce hearts. Soon enough, the demons were destroyed. As the last of the demon-apprentices fell, its body dissipating into black mist, Wynne fell to her knees, sobbing in relief. She had taken fighting those closest to her no better than Conrí and Erin had.

 

“Thank the Maker it is over,” Wynne gasped in relief, before confusion entered her voice as her form became more translucent. “Wait… where are you going?”

 

She was gone before they could answer.

 

* * *

 

The trio found themselves in an open field, not far from a decent size log cabin.

 

“So...” Erin drawled. “Who do you think this belongs to?”

 

Blair looked around in confusion. “I couldn’t possibly imagine. This... does not match any of our companions from what I know... but then, what DO we truly know about each other? We have yet not been travelling together long, even though our plight makes us grow closer.”

 

“Well, yours was in Denerim, and of us, only you were a native,” Erin pointed out.

 

“So mine was self-explanatory,” Blair nodded, seeing the logic. “But this? Here? Where might we be?”

 

Erin frowned slightly. “Conrí... I think... we've been here before...”

 

“Aye...” Conrí agreed. “This looks like the outskirts of Lothering... Leliana?”

 

“But the log cabin?” Blair pointed out. “Would she not most likely be back at her chantry?”

 

Erin sighed in exasperation. “Well we won't find out standing around like a bunch of idiots.”

 

“Fair point,” Conrí agreed, as he walked up to the door and knocked.

 

A familiar voice with an unfamiliar tone chirped joyfully from inside. “Just a moment!” there was shuffling around and small noises as the owner approached the door.

 

Blair was stunned. “Is... that...?”

 

“It... can't be,” Conrí breathed.

 

“Can it?” Erin asked.

 

The door opens and a truly radiant Tristan stood there, smiling broadly when he recognized his visitors. “No, it can’t be. But it is! Conrí! Erin! Blair! Oh, but where are my manners? Come in! Come in! I’ll make you some tea, I found some spectacular herbs just yesterday...”he was already ushering the three of them in and bustling about.

 

Blair was shell shocked and Conrí didn’t fare much better, but he found his voice. “I see you've been... busy,” he said, noting the pretty young woman already at the kitchen table. She smiled, but the warmth didn’t met her oddly colored eyes.

 

“Well, of course! Blight over, Archdemon slain, as if by a miracle we all survived, and the Chantry agreed to give up my phylactery! In my wildest dreams I never dared to wish for such freedom, such luck! Conrí, truly... Duncan walking into the tower that day was probably the best thing that could have ever happened to me. Well, besides meeting my lovely wife, of course,” he sent his “wife” a warm smile as he poured their tea. “But now, tell me? What brings you three here? Is there anyone else still coming, or is it just you?”

 

Blair managed to mumble and accept the tea. She cleared her throat before speaking. “Well you seem well and truly.... pleased and happy...”

 

“And I hate to drag you away from...” Conrí cleared his throat. “Well, your dream, but something's come up,” he took a sip of the steaming herbal tea.

 

Tristan smiled amiably. This more worried the trio more than his bad temper ever did. “Oh Conrí, always with your duty. Just relax, will you? You've only just arrived!”

 

“For a mage he is exceptionally far gone...” Blair muttered quietly to Erin from behind her cup.

 

“No kidding,” Erin said out of the corner of her mouth. The woman sent them a cool glare that went unnoticed by Tristan.

 

“Believe me, I'd love to but,” Conrí shook his head. “I can't. Neither can you, if I'm honest.”

 

Tristan gave an indulgent sigh. “Oh well, if you feel like you really must, go on and tell me about what has you so worried.”

 

Conrí set down his cup on its saucer. “That's just it. You're a mage. You should already know.”

 

Tristan’s brow furrowed, “Mage... should know? Well yes there is something...” he shook his head when his “wife” laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, Conrí. What worries are you tossing on me? Don't you see it's a beautiful day?”

 

“I believe the issue is not that he can’t see, but rather that he won’t,” Blair deduced. “Different side to the same coin I was representing, it seems.”

 

“Tristan?” Conrí asked firmly. “What is the last thing you remember before waking up in your bed?”

 

Tristan fell silent, thinking truthfully for a moment. Slowly, his face fell from the smile back to his usual scowl. “No... but that... a lie... this is all a lie... this cannot be…”

 

“Darling?” the woman asked, speaking for the first time.

 

“Don’t darling me!” Tristan hissed, shooting from his chair.

 

“I am sorry, Tristan,” Blair told him softly. “We all have left beautiful dreams behind to realize the truth.”

 

Tristan was apocalyptic. “How dare you?!” he snarled at his the demon masquerading as his wife. “You bitch! You took what I wanted most to… to kill me?” 

 

“Darling, please… did I not make you happy? Is this not what you truly wanted in your life?” her form shifted, taking on the shape of a desire demon. “Stay, and be happy forever.”

 

Tristan snarled. “I’d rather live in the real world than die here!” With an angry gesture and a hissed spell, the demon was frozen where she stood. A moment later, a fist sized sphere of stone erupted from beneath the floor and smashed into the frozen demon, shattering her. “Those damn demons...” he stomped to the corner to grab his staff. Angry sparks come off the head as he whirled back towards the others. “Well, what are we waiting for!? Let's give those bastards hell!”

 

“There's the Tristan we all know,” Conrí muttered.

 

Blair stood with a battle-ready smirk. “Good to have you back, Tristan,” she said. 

 

“So, where do we go first?” Tristan asked before he started to fade much like Wynne and Alistair had. “Wait, why is my vision... what is going on, where are you going!?”

 

Conrí sighed in agitation. “It looks like we have two left,” Erin said as they left the cabin. “Leliana and Tira.”

 

“Then let’s go,” Said Blair. “The quicker we make it out of here, the better.”

 

“Very true,” Conrí agreed. “Let's go.”

 

“Where is the next pedestal...?” Blair asked as she cast her eyes around.

 

“There,” Conrí pointed next to the house. It stood next to the well on the property.

 

“Come on,” Erin said, leading the way over to the device. “Two left...” she muttered, pressing a finger to a rune.

 

* * *

 

As the eldritch light faded, Blair glanced around her new surroundings with interest.

 

“A forest,” Conrí rumbled. “Unless Leliana is hiding a desire to dodge bears all day, I’d hazard a guess this is Tira's dream.”

 

Erin smacked the side of her neck. “Of course the bugs would be around too,” she griped.

 

“The dreams are not enticing or enchanting if they are not also realistic,” Blair pointed out pragmatically. Erin grumbled to herself as they continued on.

 

A tattooed elf emerged from the trees, his bow drawn. “Hold there, Shemlen,” he barked. “What business do you have here?”

 

“I'm the Warden Commander of Fereldan,” Conrí told the elf. “I need to speak with Tira Mahariel.”

 

Tira followed her clansmen from the forest. “Hamin, Tamlen,” she called. “These are Falon!” Tira smiled at the group. “Aneth ara, my friends! How good it is to see you again! What brings you to the Dalish?”

 

“It's good to see you as well, Tira,” Conrí nodded with a slight smile. “It's Warden business, I’m afraid.”

 

“Speak your mind, Lethallin. You know the Dalish are ever on your side, as am I,” Tira told him with a kind smile.

 

“Did you have any strange dreams last night?” Conrí asked, getting straight to the point.

 

Tira cocked her head curiously. “How strange that you should mention it. I did have a vision, perhaps a memory, from our Darkspawn fighting days. It was most troubling, though thank Mythal that time is behind us,” her expression become concerned. “Why... did you also see something?”

 

“If only it truly was behind us,” Blair sighed. She was still haunted by dreams of Ostagar and all that had led up to her joining the Wardens.

 

“What did you see?” Conrí continued.

 

“It is...” Tira frowned and lifted a hand to her forehead. “Most hazy now... this is strange, I cannot quite seem to remember anymore...”

 

“It's important,” Erin insisted. “Try to remember.”

 

Tamlen began to look even more unfriendly and other Dalish with malevolent expressions begin to appear out of the tree line.

 

“It seems to be working...” Blair commented, her fingers playing with the hilts of her weapons.

 

Tira hissed quietly. “Wait... the Blight... it is not over, is it...?” she grimaced in pain as she struggled hard to remember.

 

“Tira,” Erin pressed further. “Remember the tower...”

 

The other Dalish all exploded into their true demonic forms, shrieking. “NO, YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER FROM US!” bellowed the beast that had worn Tamlen’s face.

 

It finally clicked in Tira’s mind. “Of course, the tower! How could I forget!? How could I not see!?” her face contorted in rage. “Conrí, Erin, Blair, I am with you.” She drew her mismatched blades, ready for the fight.

 

“Good timing, Tira!” Blair crowed, drawing her daggers and launching herself at the nearest demon with bloodlust. 

 

Conrí and Erin both shifted into their final form that had any use in combat. Their flesh was replaced by flames surrounding their skeletons. Baleful yellow light shined from their eye sockets as they drew their burning swords. With a wordless howl, the burning creatures threw themselves at the demons.

 

Tira was furious at the deception these accursed creatures had played on her. Masquerading as her family, her friends. Tamlen… With a snarl like a rabid wolf, Tira slashed like a woman possessed through the demons.

 

Between the twins and Tira, Blair had little to clean up in the wake of the fiery destruction… both literal and emotional. Erin and Conrí shifted back, sheathing their blades.

 

“Tira...?” Erin asked uncertainly. 

 

The Dalish Warden was breathing heavily as she stood amidst the remains of the camp. “I... I am fine,” She said at last, though no one was convinced. “Ma serannas... you came not a moment too soon, it seems.”

 

“Tira,” Erin whispered. “I’m sorry... but...”

 

“It had to be done,” Conrí rumbled softly. 

 

“I know,” Tira nodded, still facing away from them, her hoarse voice revealing the tears she hid from them. “I do not resent you for waking me up…”

 

“Come,” Conrí beckoned. “We still have one more companion to free.”

 

“Of course... wait... where are you? Why can I not see you? Conrí? Erin? Blair!?” Tira vanished just as everyone but Blair had.

 

“Andraste's great flaming ass, why does that keep happening?” Conrí barked in exasperation.

 

“It is... certainly unsettling,” Blair allowed.

 

Conrí sighed heavily. “Let's go get our resident Sister.”

 

“The last one, luckily. Let us go.”

 

Conrí nodded and headed for the pedestal next to what had once been Tira's aravel.

 

* * *

 

The smell of incense hung heavily in the air, a heady mix of vanilla and myrrh adding to the holy air projected to those within the Lothering Chantry. Leliana made her way to the pews before the statue of Andraste behind the altar, smiling and inclining her head to the people within the Chantry; her fellow lay-brothers and sisters, the ordained priestesses tending to the need of the villagers, the few templars. Revered Mother Jessica was knelt before the statue, silently praying; she looked up as Leliana approached, gave her a soft smile and motioned for the lay sister to join her.

 

Once again, the peace and contentment the Lothering Chantry had brought into her life filled her, and Leliana was glad of it. Here she had a chance to repent for all the evil things she had done, in the safety of strong walls that had been her refuge from the storm and the company of good people, friends who had shown her nothing but kindness, understanding and a chance to obtain the forgiveness she so desperately desired as she gladly accepted the peace that filled her heart. It was a reassuring feeling. She was safe, inside strong walls that had never failed to protect her, and a grace bestowed by the Maker.

 

A noise disturbed her praying; the sound of armored boots crossing the stone floor. Ignoring the intrusion as probably little more than one of the templars on patrol, Leliana returned to her prayers.

 

“Blessed art thou who exist in the sight of the Maker. Blessed art thou who seeks his forgiveness, blessed art thou who seeks his return...”

 

“Leliana?” Out of politeness, she lifted her head to acknowledge the speaker, and was surprised to see a young man wearing a suit of steel plate standing before her, a woman who could pass for his sister and an elven lass flanking him. At a guess, she would have thought him a landless knight or a wandering adventurer, but she didn’t know him, even from her time in Orlais, so the look of relief in his eyes was most surprising. “You’re a hard woman to find, you know.”

 

“Who are you?” Leliana asked, nervous. The man’s smile dropped, a confused expression replacing it on his face. Before she could respond, Revered Mother Jessica put a hand on her shoulder, speaking firmly.

 

“I beg you, good ser, please do not disturb the girl’s meditations. She is trying to find peace.” To Leliana’s shock, the man glared malevolently at the Revered Mother. The older woman, caught a little off guard, stepped aside, annoyance at the disrespect shown flaring in her eyes.

 

“Revered Mother,” Leliana said nervously, “I do not know these people.” There was something about the man that made her extremely uncomfortable, as though his very existence was a violation of what should be.

 

“We’re friends? Don’t you remember?” the man pressed, confusion replacing anger.

 

“I-I’m sorry… I don’t know what you are talking about…” Leliana replied in a placating tone, trying to make the poor fellow understand. She could not fail to notice the sword sheathed at the man’s waist, and she got the feeling this was not a man she wanted to provoke to violence. Fortunately, the Revered Mother stepped in to try and help her before the man sinfully brought violence into the Chantry.

 

“Please, do not vex her. She needs quiet and solitude, to calm her mind and heal her heart.” Leliana relaxed as the older woman placed a soothing hand on the young warrior's shoulder. This instantly became panic as the man angrily slapped the hand aside and, whirling around, seized the Revered Mother by the throat and slammed her into the wall.

 

“Be silent, demonic filth! I wasn’t addressing you!” the young man bellowed in her face, but Revered Mother Jessica’s reaction was something none of them expected; with strength no-one her age could feasibly possess, she threw off the man’s hand and hit him full in the face, sending him flying across the Chantry; he landed heavily on the floor, looking up at the Revered Mother, and it was hard to tell which of them was looking at the other with more hate.

 

“How dare you! How dare you compare me to those monstrous things!” Revered Mother Jessica shrieked, apoplectic with fury, her face red with anger as she raised her hand to take another swing at him.

 

“Please, Revered Mother,” Leliana pleaded. “This young man is clearly not in his right mind, perhaps we should take him somewhere he can recover himself.”

 

Revered Mother Jessica sighed and clapped Leliana on the shoulder. Nodding, she snapped her fingers; two of the templars on duty picked the fellow up and began to drag the man towards the exit, but the man struggled against them all the way. His companions moved quickly after them.

 

“Take your hands off me, you demonic brutes! Leliana, listen to me! This isn’t real!”

 

“I don’t understand…” Everything still looked solid, and the pressure of the woman’s hand on her arms was strong enough, but his outburst had seemed to make everything seem unclear, even wrong. Her mind was rebelling against something she could not comprehend, and she attempted to push Conrí, Erin and Blair out of her mind.

 

…How do I know their names?

 

As the templars reached the door with their struggling burden, the man caught Leliana’s eye; looking straight at her, he yelled at Leliana. “Don’t you remember why you left the cloister?”

 

The shout stopped the templars in their tracks and silence fell. Leliana was about to reply that Conrí was mistaken, that she had lived in the Chantry all her life, when something pushed into her head. It sat at odds with what she thought she remembered, and despite herself visions of an impenetrable darkness, the beating of leathery wings, a ghastly screech of rage and hate, and a rose came into her head.

 

“I remember… there was a sign…” she murmured. It seemed so far away, like a dream she could barely remember... Leliana wanted nothing more for Conrí to go away. He was disturbing her now, disrupting what she thought to be real, and she didn’t want to think about whatever he was trying to convey to her was. Revered Mother Jessica spoke to her, gently with a sympathetic, almost pitying smile, although she kept shooting venomous looks at the fellow.

 

“Leliana, we have discussed this… sign of yours. The Maker does not care to interfere in the affairs of mortals. This ‘vision’ was likely the work of demons.”

 

“Do not listen to her! Trust in what you believe!” Erin pleaded, prying the templars’ grip off her brother. Revered Mother Jessica glared at her, but Leliana somehow could not deny the truth of her words.

 

“The Maker cares for us. I believe He misses his wayward children as much as we miss Him. My vision may not be from Him, but it urges me to do what is right. My Revered Mother knew this. I don’t know who you are, but you are not her.” Stepping away from the Revered Mother’s side, she took a step towards Conrí.

 

“We need to go,” Erin said simply. “Soon as you’re ready.”

 

“Let’s go,” Leliana said, slowly. “My head has not yet cleared, but there is something familiar about you and I… I think I can trust you.” But before she could take a step towards the door, the Revered Mother’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, speaking in a pleading voice.

 

“This is your home, your refuge. Stay and know peace.”

 

“There is no need. I carry the peace of the Chantry in my heart.” She tried to ease her grip from the Revered Mother’s grip, but the old woman’s grasp tightened into a painful vice. Leliana gasped in pain, and saw to her horror, the Revered Mother’s fingernails lengthening into yellowed claws. She looked up and screamed in horror at the sight; Revered Mother Jessica’s face was altering horrifically. She no longer possessed warm, sympathetic brown eyes, but orbs of jet, devoid of mercy and her face was set in a foul grimace, baring a mouth full of snake-like fangs.

 

“You are going nowhere, girl,” the Revered Mother snarled, and her voice sounded strange, suddenly, as though there were two people speaking at once. “I will not permit it.” Leliana tugged uselessly against the vice-like grip, and Conrí drew his sword.

 

“We are leaving whether you like it or not,” he said, pointing his sword at the Revered Mother’s chest. “Now release her or die!”

 

“No,” the Revered Mother cackled. “She is ours, now and forever!” Leliana’s fingernails scrabbled at the woman’s hand, watching in horror as the familiar features contorted, elongating and sharpening, and then she was looking into the slavering face of something more horrible than her mind could comprehend, and it was hurting her, determined not to let her go – any moment now her wrist would break and the demon would gorge upon her mind, leave her nothing but a twisted and broken husk…

 

The demon suddenly shrieked as Blair leaped onto its back, stabbing a wicked dagger into its shoulder, rendering it useless. The demon howled, desperately shaking itself, but it still refused to release Leliana as it tried to throw Blair off. Had it released Leliana to free its other hand to fight, it might have succeeded, but with both arms out of use, the demon was helpless.

 

“Die!” Blair snarled as she stabbed with her other blade piercing the demon’s chest where its heart would be. The fiend shrieked in pain, releasing Leliana as it desperately tried to seal the fatal wound, but to no avail. Its twisted shape began to break apart, its limbs, torso and finally its head dissolving into black mist that swiftly dissipated into nothingness.

 

Leliana barely paid the demon’s destruction and the dissolution of the Chantry any heed. Her memories were flooding back in a dizzying rush, and she felt sick as some were restored that she had never wanted to think of again. Every mistake, every callous and cruel thing she had done, all the pain, the misery, the betrayal…

 

Leliana didn’t know when she started sobbing; all she knew was that when she did, she heard a clatter as the sword fell to the ground, and she found herself enfolded in Conrí’s arms. The Warden, who moments before had been a wrathful destroyer, held her as gently as if she were a porcelain doll, “It’s alright, you’re safe now.”

 

“She – she was a…”

 

“That was not your Revered Mother, Leliana,” Conrí said steadily. “That was just a demon.”

 

“I know… I know.” Leliana struggled to calm herself, wiping away the tears and looking up at Conrí as she still remembered they had much to do; to confront the sloth demon and save the Circle. As she looked up at her savior, she noticed, not for the first time, how truly handsome he was. He smiled gently, his eyes warm. She blushed and ducked her head, noticing her hands were becoming transparent.

 

“What’s happening to me?” she cried, trying to suppress a note of hysteria in her voice. Conrí said something she couldn’t hear, and then she was enveloped by the thick green mists of the Fade, and knew no more.

 

* * *

 

Conrí felt uneasy. He was standing before a stone doorway ringed with glowing blue runes, invitingly held open. There was no doubt; they was being toyed with. What lay beyond the doorway was almost certainly a trap, but did they have a choice? They needed a way out of the Fade, and the only certain way was to kill the demon.

 

For a moment, Conrí thought about his companions. With the exception of Erin and Blair, he had no idea where the others were, and how they felt about him interfering in their dreams, their visions of peace. Part of him felt like a voyeur, intruding in their most intimate desires, but the more rational part of his mind knocked sense into him; the dreams were lies conjured to imprison them and if he left them to it, they would all die. He needed them.

 

The door opened before him, and he stepped into the demon’s inner sanctum.

 

What he saw both astounded and revolted him.

 

Before him lay the great hall of the Royal Palace, exactly as he remembered it; the opulent chamber hung with trophies and paintings illuminating the illustrious history of the royal family; a sword taken from the grasp of a dead dwarf in the deep Roads, a painting of King Maric and Queen Rowan clad in the wonderful finery they had worn at their wedding, a shield used by Queen Moira during the rebellion against the occupation. Only one thing was out of place; sat in the high-backed chair where Maric and later Cailan had held court sat a foul creature; it resembled the rotting corpse of a mage, clad in red and gold finery in the style of Tevinter, a gold diadem perched upon its decrepit brow, long claws idly tapping the wood of the chair’s arms.

 

The sloth demon looked up at his approach, burning red lights gleaming in its sunken eye sockets. If it felt any fear at the armed warriors advancing on it, weapons drawn, it showed no sign.

 

“Well, what do we have here?” the creature on the throne burbled. “Rebellious minions? Escaped slaves? My, my, but you have some gall!” The thing’s condescending smile fell away, contorting into a rictus grimace, the red lights that served it for eyes narrowing angrily. “But playtime is over now. You all have to go back now!”

 

All?’ Erin thought, confused, before she heard a loud crack and she looked round to see familiar faces taking shape.

 

“Oh, here I am. And there you are. You just disappeared!” Alistair pouted, before taking in their surroundings and the demon before them, his eyes widening in shock. “Oh well, no matter”

 

“You tried to keep us from each other,” Leliana snarled angrily, her bow drawn and an arrow nocked to the string. “You kept us apart because you fear us, don’t you?”

 

“You cannot hold us here, demon! We found each other in this place, and you cannot stand against us!” Wynne bellowed. 

 

“I’m going to make you regret the day you ever heard of me, you rotting bastard…” Tristan hissed.

 

“You dare drop me in a mockery of my clan?” Tira growled. “I will make you suffer dearly…”

 

“If you go back quietly, I’ll do much better” the demon whispered. “I'll make you much happier...”

 

The creature clicked its fingers, and a shimmering haze surrounded them. Looking round, Conrí saw the demon’s skeletal form was gone; it had taken a far more horrifying form. The sloth demon smiled indulgently at Conrí and Erin in the form of Bryce Cousland, just as they remembered their father; whole, hale, full of life and joy, those bright eyes gleaming with paternal warmth and pride.

 

The demon-Bryce clicked its fingers again, and other figures began to join them; Mother, Fergus, Oriana, Oren began to approach him, while the others found people they held dear advancing on them; a vision of Duncan stood beside Alistair, Leliana found herself in the embrace of a creature in the form of a beautiful brunette woman of middle years who Conrí assumed was someone Leliana had known in Orlais, and Wynne was in the company of two figures Conrí didn’t recognize; a young man in the robes of an enchanter and a young male elf clad in the robes of an apprentice. Conrí didn’t know who they were, but assumed they were of importance to Wynne. Tamlen had taken his place at Tira’s side, and a group of mages gathered near Tristan. Blair was flanked by a pair of young elves; one male with dark brown hair and the other female with flaming red locks. 

 

“You see, I can give you your every wish. All I ask is that you stay...” it spoke softly, but Conrí brushed aside the comforting embraces of his loved ones, threw aside the demon’s hands and spat in its face.

 

“You think a crude mockery of what I hold dear will convince me to let you sap the very life from my flesh? I want nothing from you but my freedom, now release us or die!”

 

The demon-Bryce’s indulgent look faded away, as did the images it had conjured for the others, replaced by a look of fury. “I made you happy and safe. I gave you peace! I did my best for you and you say you want to leave?” the demon snarled.

 

“Yes, now either release us or I’ll carve my way to freedom through you!” Conrí roared.

 

“You won’t strike me...”

 

“You are not my father, just a foul thing wearing his face! NOW DIE!”

 

“You wish to battle me? So be it… you will learn to bow to your betters, mortal!”

 

The demon roared, conjuring a jet of flame that it let loose at Conrí, Erin and Blair. Before the eldritch flames reached them, Conrí and Erin shifted into their Burning Man shapes, absorbing the flames better than any magical shield. Leliana yelled a battle cry in Orlesian and loosed her arrow; it flew straight and struck the demon in its eye; the fiend howled in pain and its concentration lapsed. Two more arrows from Tira struck it in the chest, staggering the demon, but it managed to recover itself and fend off Conrí and Erin’s fiery attack. The flames was barely inches from the demon’s torso when suddenly, its own spell dissipated. The demon-Bryce’s eyes went wide with shock as it looked round and saw Alistair, his hand raised, a sphere of energy disappearing as his templar training kicked in. The flames from the twins blasted the demon back. A spell of ice conjured by Wynne quickly enveloped the demon, trapping it before it could recover. Desperately trying to break free, its magic hindered by Alistair’s templar abilities, the sloth demon was reduced to begging for its life against those it had underestimated. Its eyes went wide, desperate with fear as its captive advanced on it.

 

“Please, I beg you, don’t do this...” the demon-Bryce pleaded.

 

“Shut up! You are not him!” Conrí bellowed in the face of its begging, raising his sword.

 

“I can give you whatever you want… anything you wish!” 

 

“Your underlings tried that,” the Warden spat, and then whirled on his heel. The sloth demon gave a final shriek before the shining claymore beheaded it.

 

A blinding flash of light erupted, enveloping them all...

 

 


	16. Broken Circle, Part 2

 

 

Conrí jerked awake, sitting up quickly. His eyes had risen just quickly enough to see the abomination slump to the ground, its head rolling across the floor not far away.

 

The others began to stir on the floor where they had fallen.

 

“Ah, good to see you’re hard at work saving the Circle,” a familiar voice chirped. The group whirled round to see Garik entering the room, daggers drawn. Serena joined him, glancing about for foes.

 

“Garik, Serena, what are you doing here?” Alistair asked. “I thought you two decided to stay behind and protect the mages?”

 

“You were gone for hours,” Garik told them. “We worried something had happened to you and it was up to the two of us to save the Circle. We decided to see if we could find you or if there was anything we could do. Sadly, Xolana here was the only one to come with us,” Garik gestured to a figure behind him who stepped into the chamber; it was Xolana Amell, the blood mage they had spared. Her ebony hair was less messy than it had been, now falling to her shoulders and tied back at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were firmly downcast to the floor, not looking at the others, still fearful that the offer of mercy might have been temporary.

 

“Uldred and his remaining allies are holed up in the Harrowing Chamber,” Xolana murmured. “We should hurry; I can feel the Veil shifting, even worse than here. Something powerful and terrible is happening up there.”

 

“Then let’s go,” Conrí commanded, but Wynne stopped, kicked the sloth demon’s headless body off the dead mage and pulled the scroll of parchment from his grasp.

 

“May the Maker guide you to rest, Niall,” she whispered, standing up with the acquisition. “The Litany of Adralla,” Wynne explained as she held out the parchment. “It should avail us much in the coming battle.”

 

“Then let us go and end this,” Conrí replied simply as Xolana led the way forward.

 

* * *

 

Irving banged on the steel doors of the tower’s atrium with the back end of his staff, which he had retrieved from his office. The crowd had gathered behind him - a combination of the Wardens and their companions, the surviving mages, full enchanters, youths, children, and the sole templar to survive being sealed in the tower - all keeping a good distance from the mages and watching with bated breath, uncertain whether the templars would greet them with open arms or drawn swords. Wynne felt that the answer might be a foregone conclusion, considering the murderous glare Cullen was directing at Xolana Amell’s back, but the Grey Wardens had done what was asked of them when they entered the tower, and now Wynne could only hope Greagoir kept his side of the bargain.

 

“Greagoir,” Irving called in a weak voice. “Open this door!”

 

Silence followed, and no answer. Cullen stepped forward and called out, “Knight-Commander, it’s me! It’s Cullen! Open the door, it’s over!”

More silence followed, and then finally, muffled through the steel portal, they heard Greagoir shouting “Open those doors, but be ready for anything! For all we know, it could be demons impersonating our colleagues behind them!”

 

There was the sound of locks turning and with a great creak, the steel doors swung open, revealing the sight of Knight-Commander Greagoir and a handful of templars crowded around the door, swords drawn and ready. The only emotion displayed was by Greagoir, the only man not wearing a full helm, whose face changed from suspicious wariness, to astonishment as he saw the tired, weary, but mercifully human faces looking back at him.

 

“Irving?” the Knight-Commander’s voice was brimming with relief. “Maker’s breath, I did not expect to see you alive!”

 

 “It is over, Greagoir,” said Irving, running a weary hand over his face. “This whole affair was Uldred’s doing, and now he is dead.” 

 

Greagoir nodded; Wynne knew that the Knight-Commander had never liked the conniving little toad. Few tears would have been shed for Uldred anyway; once word that he was behind the massacre got out, he would be reviled for a good long time to come.

 

A third voice cut in at this point. “Uldred tortured the mages, hoping to break their will and turn them into abominations. We don’t know how many of them have turned.” Wynne whirled round, angrily glaring at the speaker. She could empathize with Cullen for what he had suffered at the hands of Uldred and his lackeys, but to try and use his prejudice to condemn the surviving mages to extermination was beyond an outrage. 

 

Irving’s exhaustion melted away as he shot a furious glare at the templar. “Do not be ridiculous, you little fool! You would let your prejudice condemn innocent men, women, children to death?” 

 

“Of course he’ll say that; he might be a blood mage! Don’t you know what they did? I won’t let that happen again!”

 

Greagoir coldly cut across his knight-lieutenant’s protests. “I am the Knight-Commander here, not you.”

 

“And what is the Knight-Commander’s decision?” Conrí interjected. Wynne could not fail to notice that the Warden’s hand was snaking to the hilt of his sword, ready in case Cullen tried to incite the templars to violence, but it was not needed. Wynne watched as Greagoir scrutinized Cullen, seeing the signs of hysteria and lyrium deprivation as clearly having impacts on his mental state and his demands. 

 

“We have won back the tower,” Greagoir shrugged. “I will accept Irving’s assurances all is well.”

 

Cullen clearly wouldn’t let it drop, making one last feeble protest, but Greagoir silenced him. “Enough Cullen, I expected better from you!” Turning to the rest of his men, the Knight-Commander issued commands. “Take the children and the apprentices somewhere they can rest; this whole experience will have been trying enough for them, I won’t make them suffer more than they already have.” As his templars hastened to obey his commands, leading the younger mages somewhere they could recuperate, Greagoir helped Irving to a seat in the atrium and let out another relieved sigh, running a gauntleted hand through his hair.

 

“So Uldred was behind it after all? I suppose we should have all been more suspicious about how he survived Ostagar and his claims about the regent. But how did you manage to stop him?”

 

“That’s quite a story...” Tristan replied, and Wynne remembered the arduous final battle that had played out to save the Circle...

 

Armored feet raced up the steps to the Harrowing Chamber. Conrí slammed an armored shoulder into the heavy door and looked in upon a scene of utter chaos. Lightning pulsated and danced around the walls and ceiling of the chamber, bathing the room in flickering blue light. Huddled in a corner, bound and gagged by magical restraints, a group of mages huddled, a mix of male and female, human and elf, watching the horrific spectacle unfolding in front of them with eyes wide with terror.

 

In the centre of the chamber, a trio of abominations were dancing and writhing around a hapless mage, while, as Wynne watched, a familiar figure clad in green and maroon robes approached the poor fellow, seized the man’s jaw and forced the terrified captive to look him in the face.

 

“Do you accept the gift that I offer?”

 

With the exception of herself and the Mage elf, the group looked away from the torturous ritual unfolding; Alistair and Conrí turning away, the latter allowing the Orlesian girl to use his hand to cover her eyes. The poor mage’s flesh began to expand and elongate, the skin twisting and ripping as bones protruded through, nails elongating into claws. Soon the man was gone, and in his place, another abomination got to its feet, flexing its limbs. In the deafening silence that followed, the group began to advance into the room, the sound of their footsteps ringing out in the silent room as loud as the bells of the Grand Cathedral. The bald mage and his abomination minions whirled round at the noise, the mage’s face twisting into a malevolent grin.

 

“Ah, an intruder. I bid you welcome; care to join in our revels?”

 

“One assumes you’re the infamous Uldred?” Alistair asked with a dry smile. Conrí, his face contorted into a murderous snarl, nodded angrily. “It’s him. I remember him from Ostagar; he was at Cailan’s council of war, offering to light Ishal’s beacon instead of the Wardens...”

 

Uldred gave a supercilious smile, those cold, weasel-like eyes gleaming maliciously. “I must admit though, I’m quite impressed you’re still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you’ve killed a great many of my servants.” The bald mage’s face faced twisted into a petulant scowl, like a child denied a promised toy, before it faded away. “Oh well, they’re probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Conrí sarcastically replied. “Are you upset I killed your lackeys? Well don’t worry, you’ll soon follow them into the grave!”

 

For the first time, a sliver of fear crept into Uldred’s eyes. “Wait, let’s not be too hasty, boy! I’m trying to have a civilized conversation here!”

 

“What would a monster like you know about civility?”

 

“A mage is but the larval form of something greater!” Uldred snarled, his eyes bright and his voice thick with the zeal of a fanatic. “Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations, when we have reached our full potential! Look at them!” he spat, gesturing at the group of tied up mages cowering in the corner. “The Chantry has them convinced! They deny themselves the pleasure of becoming something GLORIOUS!”

 

“YOU’RE MAD, ULDRED!” Wynne shouted, her voice thick with fury and hate she didn’t know she possessed. “There is NOTHING glorious in what you have become!”

 

“Ah, Wynne, I see; stubborn as ever! And Xolana Amell, back to see me again, how wonderful! You were so eager to learn; what secrets will you have me teach you this time? And how will you repay me for them?” he hissed, his smile taking a rather lecherous look.

 

“I want nothing from you but your head, you bastard!” the young woman shouted back. “I was blind, too hungry for knowledge to see the truth! You are a monster, Uldred, and by helping you, I am no better than you. The only way to start making amends for my stupidity, my sins, is to kill you!”

 

“Uldred?” the bald mage chuckled. “He is gone. I am Uldred, and yet not Uldred; I am more than he was. I could give you both this gift, you and all mages. It would be so much easier if you just accepted it… but some people can be sooo stubborn.” he finished with a petulant sigh.

 

“What do you expect, you monster? You’re destroying their lives!” Leliana screamed at him. 

 

Uldred tossed up his arms in annoyance. “Resistance! Everywhere I go, resistance! How very inconsiderate. What would you know of such matters, stupid girl? I even have the First Enchanter on my side, don’t I Irving?” At this, Uldred snapped his fingers, magically dragging a bearded old man to his side. 

 

Wynne’s eyes went wide with horror as she recognized the exhausted captive, weakened and unable to move. “W-what have you done to him?”

 

“Stop him,” Irving choked weakly. “He... is building an army. He will... destroy the templars and—”

 

Uldred shook his head in disapproval, but his voice gave away the amusement he felt at the situation. “You’re a sly little fox, Irving, telling on me like that. And here I thought he was starting to turn.”

 

“N-never!”Irving snarled, spitting the words and a great deal of saliva and blood into Uldred’s face.

 

“That’s enough out of you, Irving!” Uldred snapped, striking the old man a blow that knocked him back to the floor. “He’ll serve me soon enough… as will you,” he turned his gaze back to the Wardens and their companions, looking at them as if they were rare and valuable jewels he just had to possess. “Your raw potential, with the strength of a demon behind it, would be unstoppable.”

 

“Yeah, sorry. That doesn’t sound like anything a dwarf like me wants anything to do with,” Garik snarked.

 

“Oh, enough! Enough of this insane prattle!” Tristan snarled. “You are going to die for what you’ve done here! And then I’ll have the mages bring you back so we can kill you again!”

 

“Fight if you must,” Uldred replied with a resigned shrug. “It’ll just make my victory all the sweeter.”

 

The last syllables had barely left his mouth when three arrows buried themselves in Uldred’s chest, one after the other. The sheer shock of the act spurred the others to attack; two of the four abominations flanking Uldred fell limp to the floor, Garik having embedded a throwing knife through the creatures’ eyes into their skulls. The third abomination was set ablaze by a stream of fire from Xolana; as the monster desperately tried to put out the flames chewing its flesh, Conrí ran it through. 

 

Alistair drove his sword through the chest of the fourth as his templar training dispelled whatever sorceries it had been trying to summon. 

 

Leliana lowered her bow, but to her and the others’ shock, Uldred remained on his feet. He staggered back a few steps, staring at the arrows jutting from his chest, but they seemed more to amuse him. “Oh, you’re going to have to do much better than that...” he sighed.

 

A blast of white light exploded from Uldred’s bleeding chest, engulfing him with the accompanying sound of ripping clothing and flesh and a bestial roar. 

 

The light began to recede, revealing a form Tristan had only seen once. A hideous and gargantuan beast that appeared to be a fusion of human, insect and reptile. The creature glared at them with six small, cruel eyes as black as jet. Its hulking form was at least the size of an ogre, its scaly flesh purple with an insectile black and spiky carapace running down its back. Its lizard-like head twisted from side to side as it tried to choose who to kill first, running a pale forked tongue over rows of jagged teeth, and idly flexing its clawed hands.

 

“A pride demon!” Tristan barked. “Watch yourselves! And don’t forget the Litany!”

 

The pride demon roared and swung a boulder-sized fist at Serena. She managed to block the blow with her shield, but the fist struck with the force of a stone shot from a catapult, and Serena was hurled back to the floor in a shower of splinters as the blow shattered the whitewood shield into pieces. 

 

Serena shook her head, dazed and in pain. Several ribs felt cracked but she forced himself to move, rolling to one side, ignoring the pain screaming through her body as the demon’s fist descended, pulverizing the space where her head had been seconds before.

 

The demon-Uldred gave a growl of frustration that swiftly turned into a screech as a pair of arrows blinded two of its eyes. Alistair and Garik pressed the attack, Alistair stabbing his blade into the monster’s groin as it pawed feebly at its eyes, while Garik slid between and under its legs, slicing his daggers behind him as he passed in an effort to slice the beast’s hamstrings and cripple it, but his blades barely cut through the thing’s hide. Howling in fury, the demon kicked out behind and lashed out in front of it, a clawed foot slamming into the small of Garik’s back and sending him flying into a wall, while a fist struck Alistair square in the face; he fell to the floor, limp as a sack of potatoes and out cold. The demon glared angrily at the two foes it had just bested, but then seemed to dismiss them, in favor of easier prey; the bound and restrained mages.

  
Leliana continued to loose arrows, and Wynne and Xolana shot magical projectiles, but such things were like trying to kill a dragon with bee stings; the demon seemed little more than mildly annoyed by their attacks. Towering over the captive mages, the demon spread its hands wide, wisps of power forming and coalescing into a glowing sphere of energy, illuminating the demon’s already foul features in a horrific manner.

 

“Do you accept the gift that I offer?” the demon spat.

 

Reacting without thinking, Wynne unfurled the Litany and shouted the incantation inscribed upon it. The demon howled in frustration as the power it had been trying to summon dissipated like smoke on the wind. The pride demon bellowed as it began to advance on them.

 

Serena desperately staggered to her feet, her axe held out in front of her, but she was constantly shaking her head, as if trying to clear it; Wynne was enough of a healer to know the signs of a concussion when she saw it. Her shield was gone, and judging by the way she was clutching her side told her the dwarf’s ribs were cracked, perhaps even broken. Still, she fought bravely, stabbing and slashing her axe to try and keep the demon at bay. 

 

Conrí fought beside her, his huge blade drawing blood at least half a dozen times until Uldred grew tired of the dance and smashed the Warden aside, the Orlesian girl letting out a yelp of horror as he hit the wall and fell to its base with a loud thud, the steel breastplate he wore smashing at the force of the impact.

 

Tristan was similarly batted aside, but the young elven mage didn’t have the benefit of armor. Wynne quickly moved to the fallen elf, healing the splintered ribs as best she could. 

 

Leliana looked torn between running to Conrí’s side and standing to protect the two mages, but Wynne couldn’t see what she could do; three women, all tired and wounded, trying to defeat one of the most powerful denizens of the Fade. It would have been challenging enough trying to do it rested and prepared, but here, wounded and weary from the battles through the tower and their sojourn through the Fade, she could not see how they would manage it. The pride demon bore down on them, once more twisting its head from side to side as it decided which one to kill first, and Wynne feared they wouldn’t have the power to stop it.

 

“We have all the power we need, Wynne,” a soft voice murmured. She looked round to see Xolana, one of Garik’s daggers in her hand and a strange look on her face. “All you need is the will to use it.”

 

“No, you cannot mean to do this!” the older mage shouted, realizing what the girl intended.

 

Xolana shook her head. “In this case, the end does justify the means!”

 

With a feral roar, Xolana Amell drew the dagger across the palm of her left hand. Transferring the blade to her wounded hand, the mage repeated the same action to her right hand. It took but seconds for the blood to paint the palms of her hands crimson, and as Uldred reached out a clawed hand to seize her, Xolana spat a dark word in the language of magic. Her right hand burst into flame, as if she were wearing a bright red glove… and at the same time, a flaming hand formed of blazing spectral energy wrapped itself around the pride demon’s throat. Xolana shouted the same word again, and her left hand became ablaze, as a second hand formed of magical energy seized the demon-Uldred by the waist, lifting the pride demon clear of the ground. The demon struggled against its restraints, but Xolana’s blood magic held it in place.

 

“I will not be harmed by a mortal whelp like you! I am the greatest of my kind; you will not stop me, and I will make you dance like puppets on strings before I make you watch me feast on your hearts...!” the pride demon’s rant was abruptly cut off as Xolana’s right hand closed into a fist, and the magic around the demon’s neck tightened to choke it in response.

 

“Go to hell,” the young mage snarled, pulling her hands apart… and the magic holding the pride demon ripped it in two. The two halves of the demon crashed wetly to the floor, thrashing and twitching spasmodically before falling still. The second its death tremors stopped, the demon’s corpse began to dissolve into a bubbling pool of black ichor.

 

“Oh, Maker… I’m getting too old for this!” a familiar voice groaned. 

 

Wynne whirled round to see a elderly bearded mage getting to his feet, along with the others, freed of their magical restraints by Uldred’s death. “Irving, are you alright?” Wynne asked.

 

Irving shook his head groggily to clear it, groaning wearily. “Uh, I’ve been better, but I am thankful to be alive. I assume that is your doing, Wynne?”

 

“I wasn’t alone. I had help...” Wynne murmured looking to Xolana and the now stirring Tristan.

 

“Please, help them!” a strident voice called out desperately. Wynne looked round to see Leliana on her knees beside Conrí, who was unconscious, his armor in tatters, barely clinging to his form. Xolana was at her side in a second, casting minor healing spells to try and close his wounds. Wynne raced over to the two women and leapt to work immediately, pouring magical energy to restore and bring health back to the injured Warden, while Irving and the other mages tended to Alistair and the wounded dwarves.

 

Conrí regained consciousness with a start, gasping for breath. “Get this thing off me!” he wheezed, scrambling for the straps of his armor. “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” Leliana nearly panicked, drawing her belt knife and slicing through the leather straps with almost alarming ease. After the breastplate was peeled off, he slumped back, panting. “Well, this is new...” he joked upon realizing his position in Leliana’s arms. Leliana blushed as she helped him to his feet.

 

Their other companions were coming to as well; Alistair groggily clutching his head as two mages helped him to his feet, while the former castless idly brushed aside offers of assistance from the mages tending to him and began to scoop portions of the puddle of black ichor that had once been Uldred into glass vials, doubtless to refine and distil the demonic essence into a powerful poison. Erin, who had been knocked for a loop when one of the abominations exploded, soon got to her feet. 

 

Tira and Blair, who had been watching Cullen, came running in, no doubt drawn by the sudden quiet.

 

“The Circle owes you both a debt we may never be able to repay. Come, the templars await; we should let them know the tower is secure.”

 

“Yes, let us hurry before the Right arrives, or the templars decide they’ve waited long enough and decide to storm the tower anyway...” Xolana nodded in agreement.

 

Irving took the lead out of the Harrowing Chamber, muttering angrily at the top of the stairs “Ah, curse whoever decided the Circle should be housed in a tower.”

 

“Incredible, truly incredible,” Greagoir muttered as the tale reached its conclusion, though the story had some editing of course. “I am amazed that you were able to succeed, Warden, but I thank you nonetheless. You have proven yourself a friend of the templars and the Circle.”

 

“And what of the darkspawn? That was the very reason we came here...” Alistair cut in.

 

“I promised you aid, but with the Circle restored, my duty is to watch the mages. They, however, are free to aid you.” 

 

The words had no sooner left his mouth when Irving interjected. “The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn; I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight. You have my word, as First Enchanter. The Circle will join the Grey Wardens in their fight!”

 

“Irving, I have a request,” Wynne spoke for the first time since the Harrowing Chamber. “I seek leave to follow the Grey Wardens.”

 

“Wynne, we need you here. The Circle needs you...” Irving began, but Wynne cut him off with a soft smile and a shake of the head. 

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me. The Circle has you. This man is brave and good, and capable of great things. If he will accept my aid, I will assist him in this endeavor.”

 

“I don’t see why not,” Conrí said from his place near the quarter master. He’d learned his breastplate was a total loss and would need a replacement. Most of the other pieces were in very rough shape as well, so he decided to trade it all in for a set of fine viridium heavy chain. “We could use a good healer. Surana’s powerful but not the best when it comes to creation magic.” At Wynne’s surprised expression, Conrí shrugged. “You can learn a lot wandering around in the fade. I just happened to find a few magic books.”

 

“You never were one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had elsewhere.” Irving chuckled softly. 

 

Wynne merely gave an unconcerned shrug of the shoulders. “Why stay, when I can be of service elsewhere?”

 

“I give you leave to follow the Grey Wardens, but know you always have a place here...”

 

Suddenly, the sound of running feet could be heard; looking round, they saw it was the young mage, Xolana Amell, running towards them, wearing a heavy travelling cloak of bear fur and a leather pack on her shoulders. She had her staff in hand and a determined look on her face. “First Enchanter Irving, I also beg leave to follow the Wardens in their endeavor against the Blight!”

 

“Not a chance, girl!” Greagoir snapped. “You’re going back into solitary confinement to finish off the six months I assigned you for your part in that Jowan fiasco!”

 

“I had nothing to do with Jowan!” Xolana snapped. “You locked me up because you couldn’t get at Surana anymore, and for no other reason besides I was Jowan’s friend too!”

 

“Knight-Commander, that woman’s a blood mage! I saw her working with Uldred’s cronies! She must be punished further!”

 

“Cullen, don’t be a fool! If I was on Uldred’s side, why would I be here now?” she snapped, but the templar would not be placated. 

 

“Do not think to overwhelm my vigilance with your sorceries, woman!”

 

“And now we get to the crux of the matter!” Xolana sneered, gesturing at her breasts with one hand and waving the other dismissively. “You don’t want me punished; you just want to make sure I don’t leave the tower so you have something to leer at when you’re having a rough day! What, you think I wouldn’t notice your eyes on my arse every time I walk past you?” she snapped at the incredulous look of outrage on the templar’s face.

 

“How dare you suggest such a thing! How dare you insinuate that I would be so weak as to put base desires above my duty to the Maker...” Cullen snarled, fingering the hilt of his sword. As the argument between the templar and the mage became more vicious, Leliana sidled up to Conrí and whispered something in his ear. Wynne didn’t know what words passed between them, but clearly whatever the girl said had struck a chord with the Warden because he interjected himself between the arguing pair with a determined expression.

 

“Enough!” Conrí snapped. “I am taking this matter out of your hands. First Enchanter Irving, I am invoking the Right of Conscription on Xolana Amell. The templars will turn her over to the custody of the Grey Wardens!” his eyes found Greagoir. “Or do I have to drop you again, Greagoir?”

 

It took a moment for the shock of the act to settle in. Cullen looked as though he were about to explode. “What? No! Knight-Commander, this cannot be allowed!”

 

“I’m afraid it can.”

 

“But-,”

 

“Enough, Cullen!” Greagoir snapped. “That is my final word on this matter.” The ageing Knight-Commander found the de facto Warden Commander’s eyes. A nod was all the thanks he would receive. 

 

“In any case, Xolana’s talents would be of far better use against the Blight than cooped up here; if the Grey Wardens wish her service, I will not stop them. Now, if there is nothing else, I would take my leave; there is much to do here...”

 

Conrí nodded. The quarter master came forward and helped Conrí pull his new armor on. He noticed a few shapes on the breastplate where the ageing was different. When the Warden looked at the quartermaster with a raised brow, the man shrugged, tightening the strap on the pauldron. “It had a templar insignia welded on. I pried the pieces off since I heard you didn’t much care for the Order.”

 

Conrí nodded. “My thanks.”

 

Rather than bunk in the tower for the night the group decided to head back across the lake to rejoin the others. After Carroll had deposited the group on the bank, Morrigan approached, having seen the ferry crossing. “I take it the Chantry’s pets are living up to their word?” she asked dismissively.

 

“Aye, though I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” Conrí grunted in exhaustion. 

 

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “We have some news.”

 

“Oh?” Erin asked, setting aside her swords. “Do tell.”

 

“A merchant stopped by not long after you left. Seemed eager to offload quite a bit of stock. He even gave us this,” Morrigan pulled a crystalline rod from her belt. “He says it is a control rod for a golem. The little I know of such things says a golem could be quite useful.”

 

“How much did he want for it?” Conrí asked, taking the proffered device. 

 

“Nothing, which surprised me. There is a catch, however,” Morrigan shook her head. “The golem didn’t come with the rod.”

 

“Well, then where is it?” Serena asked, examining the rod.

 

“A little town not too far, called Honnleath.” 

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, the Wardens and their companions packed up camp and turned west towards the Frostback Mountains. Xolana seemed a bit leery around anyone besides Tristan, so she spoke mostly with her fellow mage that day. The group had been walking most of the day when the topic of freedom came up between the two mages.

 

“So how's it feel to finally be able to stretch your legs, Amell?” Tristan asked, shouldering his staff.

 

Xolana stretched her limbs out purposefully to highlight the point and then offered the elf a toothy grin. “Utterly... FABULOUS.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Tristan snickered, before sending Conrí a slight glare. “Even if we are stuck with a noble brat as a commander.”

 

“Oh I don't know... it's not all that bad,” Xolana told him, looking the “noble brat” up and down appreciatively from behind.

 

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Well, no accounting for your taste or lack thereof, this isn't gonna be a cakewalk.”

 

“Oh don't be such a sourpuss. Cakewalk or not, at least we're doing something productive, not being forced into dingy little slums or towers against our wills.”

 

“You have no idea how right you are,” Blair muttered. “But you're going to have to prove yourself, Xolana.”

 

Xolana raised eyebrow. “And you think I'm not gonna live up to expectation?”

 

“No offense, but your first showing wasn't exactly impressive,” Blair sniffed.

 

“Excuse me?” Xolana glared. 

 

Blair held up her hands. “Just calling it as I see it, Xolana,” she said.

 

Xolana crossed her arms. “Well what exactly would you do if someone tried to kill your friends?”

 

“To be fair,” Tristan interjected. “Severus attacked first. Then again, he always was a bit of a greasy bastard.”

 

“Just,” Tira interrupted before Xolana could retort. “Direct your spells at the darkspawn and you'll do fine.”

 

Xolana relaxed with a grunt. “That was the plan.”

 

“Good,” Conrí snipped, smacking both Xolana and Tristan on the back of the head. “Let's keep it that way, yeah?” Tristan glared while Wynne looked at Alistair in confusion.

 

“He does that if we get too far off track,” The former templar explained with a shrug. “Glad I’m not the only recipient anymore.”

 

“So much hostility today,” Xolana muttered, rubbing her head. “One would think it was YOU all who needed to get laid, not myself.”

 

“She did help us take down Uldred,” Leliana told them diplomatically. “Try to be nice.” 

 

Conrí grunted, rolling his eyes.

 

Xolana chuckled. “Sweet little Leliana. Come to protect me from the big bad wolves?”

 

“You are more than capable of that, I'm sure,” Leliana giggled.

 

“Be that as it may, that's still very sweet of you,” the blood mage smirked. The Wardens would soon come to be wary of that smirk. “I may have to think of a way to show my gratitude.”

 

“Ooh, really?” said Leliana with an intrigued smile. “What did you have in mind?

 

“Oh I'm sure we could come to some sort of agreement....”

 

“Sounds like fun.”

 

“Keep it child friendly for the moment, ladies,” Conrí smirked.

 

“Aww spoilsport...” Xolana jutted out her hip with a pout. “You can watch if you REALLY want…”

 

“Tempting, but we need to find a place to camp for the night.”

 

Xolana sighed. “There always has to be a voice of reason, doesn't there. Very well then.”

 

“Rather depressing that it has to be me,” Conrí grunted.

 

* * *

  
After the relative calm of the day before, the Wardens began to feel tense as they approached Honnleath. Only two of them really understood why. The group came over a rise and the smell of taint hit them all. 

 

The Darkspawn were sacking Honnleath.

 


	17. Golems and Hunting

The genlock screeched as the sword’s blade stabbed down into its chest. The darkspawn’s wail petered out into a weak death rattle as it slumped to the floor, Erin drawing her off-hand sword out with a wet, sucking sound and a spurt of blood droplets. Several more genlocks came running out of the burning village, drawn by the sound, knives and axes in their clawed hands, ready to fight.

 

I’ve grown stronger since Ostagar. They won’t find me as easy prey as they did atop Ishal, Erin thought, brandishing her blades, reading to kill the blighted creatures.

 

A second genlock went down with an arrow in its eye, while a third took a crossbow bolt in the throat, tumbling down the small slope from the burning cottage it and its ilk had been in the process of ransacking, tripping up two more darkspawn behind it. Erin tossed a grateful nod towards Alistair and Leliana before turning her attention to the remaining darkspawn. 

 

The village square was the center of the carnage; bodies of villagers left where they had been cut down. Men, women, even children and animals, all hacked to ribbons by darkspawn blades and left as fodder for the horde… and for the flies and crows once the darkspawn were done feeding off the bodies. Yet, there were barely any darkspawn remaining in Honnleath; about half a dozen hurlocks, and nearly double that number of genlocks, fighting amongst themselves over loot or choice pieces of meat from the multitude of corpses lying around. A hurlock Alpha prowled amongst them, periodically helping itself to choice bits of the plunder, often from the claws of its underlings, silencing their protests with a deep growl from within the confines of its horned helm, or a whack with the haft of its battle axe.

 

As I suspected, Conrí thought. A war-party, taking anything that wasn’t nailed down and destroyed whatever was left over. 

 

“How many?” Wynne asked. Conrí turned his attention to the older mage, genuine fear for her safety crossing his mind. I shouldn’t have agreed for her to come with us. Xolana was an accomplished enough healer and Wynne… clearly, her age was catching up with her. Conrí shook his head slightly. It was done, and while she made herself useful, Wynne would remain.

 

“Not as many as I feared. It seems this little war-band broke away from the horde and made its way here,” Conrí rumbled.

 

“Even so, they outnumber us. Pity that thing’s not working; if it were, we’d have a chance. It could pulverize them before they knew what was on ‘em, all we’d have to do would be mop up the rest,” Alistair said with a nod towards the only other thing of interest in the village square, and the second reason they’d come to Honnleath.

 

In the center of the village square was a seven foot tall statue, roughly hewn from granite or some other hard stone into the shape of a humanoid figure, the stonemason who’d carved the thing making out rudimentary impression of musculature. Its wide shoulders, broad torso and back were studded with irregular blue crystals and its immense arms tapered to boulder-like fists, its small, geometric head carved into an expression that might suggest the statue were shouting a battle cry or taunt. The darkspawn paid it as much attention as they did the corpses littered about the place, but the Wardens and their companions knew better. The statue was a golem, crafted by the dwarves in ages past, if what Serena said was accurate.

 

“You waste time here, Warden,” Sten rumbled. “The darkspawn here are few. The horde marches elsewhere.”

 

“Do you know what a golem is, Sten?” Serena questioned.

 

“No, I cannot say I do. The Tamassrans must lack the knowledge of such things; I will make sure to remedy that when I return to Par Vollen.”

 

“Then I will enlighten you on ancient dwarven ingenuity. A golem is a weapon of incredible power and force, created by the dwarves for one purpose; to destroy darkspawn. The memories say a single golem was worth an entire company of soldiers in battle, and was easily capable of slaughtering its way through countless packs of darkspawn. Now, seeing as you are now aware of what such a thing can do, do you not agree that it would be useful to acquire such a weapon and put it to use?”

 

Sten hadn’t replied, but the reluctant nod the Qunari had given told Serena that her argument had begrudgingly won Sten around. 

 

Quickly, Conrí sketched out a plan of battle. “I’ll deal with the Alpha; you take out the hurlocks. There’s a good chance the genlocks will spook and run if we kill their larger ilk,” he explained before anyone else could ask. Raising his longbow, Conrí took aim, waiting until the Alpha had turned so that he could see its face, and then loosed the bowstring. The arrow flew through the air and slammed into the alpha’s left eye, sending the creature pitching to the floor. A second arrow, accompanied by one from Leliana, another from Tira and a crossbow bolt from Alistair dropped four of the hurlocks. By then, the darkspawn were charging straight for them, the Alpha getting back to its feet despite having an arrow protruding from its eye, hefting its axe and roaring angrily, swinging out. Alistair slammed his shield into the chest of a charging hurlock, knocking it off balance and sending it sprawling, then smashed its skull with his mace as it tried to rise. Conrí dodged aside from a downward stroke of the alpha’s axe, leaping to its left and taking advantage of the blind spot, driving his blade into the side of the darkspawn’s chest and then slamming the back of his fist into the side of its throat. Garik sliced open the throat of another hurlock with his daggers, then spun and hurled his axe, watching as it slammed into the chests of a genlock. 

 

The remaining darkspawn panicked; with so many of their number slain, they broke and ran, the genlocks scattering like crows in all directions, looking for a way out of the village, the hurlocks retreating through an open door set at the base of a structure that might once have been a tower, fleeing down a staircase that disappeared into darkness.

 

With the darkspawn threat gone, Conrí turned his full attention to the inert golem. Drawing the control rod as he approached, Conrí held it aloft. “Dulef gar,” Nothing happened. Conrí tried the command phrase again. Still nothing happened. 

 

Serena frowned. “Are you sure that’s the command phrase? Sounds like gibberish to me,” she said.

 

“It’s what the merchant gave Morrigan,” Erin told her, her blades held loosely at her sides.

 

Leliana gestured to the ruins of the tower, the open door through which the remaining hurlocks had fled down. “There may be more darkspawn down there, and if so, there may be survivors or prisoners who might know more about this golem.”

 

“Then let’s find out,” Conrí replied, the taint in his veins guiding the way down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

The darkness of the tunnels was not more reassuring; the only light conjured from the tips of Wynne and Xolana’s staffs, and the only thing guiding them the burning, itching sensation coursing through Conrí’s veins, growing stronger as they neared their objective. To everyone’s surprise, what they found in the basement was an amalgamation of a laboratory and a brewery. The smell of ale and magical potions hung heavily in the air, making Tristan wonder just who had lived here. Was this place’s owner a mage? An apostate? Did the villagers know? Did they stay silent to protect him from the Circle? Questions tumbled through the elf’s mind.

 

A feral screech in the distance snapped Tristan out of his musings. There’d be plenty of time to wonder on the identity of the tower’s owner after the darkspawn infesting it were dead.

 

Soon enough, the meandering tunnels had converged on a single chamber, a large open room where a pack of darkspawn were trying vainly to smash their way through some sort of transparent wall, formed of violet energy. Behind the wall, a number of men and women cowered and prayed for deliverance; the wall was holding, but it wouldn’t last forever, not with five hurlocks trying to hack their way through, or the emissary alternately blasting the barrier with fire and lightning. They had attacked without thinking, Conrí swinging his sword into the back of a hurlock’s skill, splitting it before the creature knew it was threatened. The emissary whirled round, spitting angrily and blasted a lightning bolt at Conrí, but the magic did no damage, Conrí silently thanking the mage who’d crafted the enchantments on the Juggernaut plate. The emissary snarled in anger and tried to attempt another spell, fire flickering in its clawed hands… and then guttering out as Alistair’s templar skills silenced its spell casting. The emissary stared in dumb shock at its empty hands, and fell with a screech as two arrows from Leliana took it in the throat.

 

The quartet of remaining hurlocks broke into a charge, but Xolana and Wynne hit them first, simultaneously blasting the darkspawn with their magic; a jet of ice from Wynne froze the hurlocks, before a stream of flame from the Amell girl melted it, leaving the hurlocks standing in a pool of ankle-deep water, their armor drenched. Before the creatures could recover, Conrí pulled the glass bottle he’d purchased from the merchant and hurled it at their feet; the shock bomb shattered, the magical electricity escaping and frying the hurlocks within their own armor. Fatally electrocuted, the hurlocks toppled to the ground like rag dolls, dead and charred like sides of beef. The watching people of Honnleath cheered jubilantly as they saw the threat was over.

 

“By the Maker, we’re saved!” a woman cried out joyfully from behind the barrier.

 

“You weren’t sent by the Bann, were you?” Another man asked. “To save us?”

 

“We’re Grey Wardens, my friend,” Serena told him, belting her axe.

 

“Grey Wardens? Here? Well, thank the Maker for our luck!” the man laughed. “My name is Matthias, I thank you, but I have to ask, if you weren't sent by someone, why are you here? If you don't mind my asking?”

 

“A merchant told us about this place, and heard of your trouble among other things,” Blair told Matthias.

 

“A merchant told you? Why would a merchant… oh, I think I see,” Matthias concluded as to why there here.

 

The man raised his hand and invoked a few words in Arcanum. The barrier in front of the Wardens rippled slightly, apparently becoming passable. The remaining villagers fled towards the exits. Xolana couldn’t help but be impressed by the display, having never come across such a spell in her readings. .  


Matthias began to rant as the Wardens approached.. “This is about Shale, isn't it? I should have known. That damnable golem brought us nothing but trouble. My mother sold the rod years ago, after it killed my father, and good riddance.”

 

“Killed your father? What do you mean?” Leliana asked.

 

Matthias described to them how his father, Wilhelm, was a hero of the war with Orlais, a mage sworn to the Arls of Redcliffe. He was respected and loved by all for his deeds. Conrí’s eyes widened slightly at this news, having heard many stories about this enchanter and the golem that fought at Wilhelm’s side. It beat his father so hard that his mother, who found him, barely recognized him. The events had colored his views on the golem.

 

“My father deserved better than that. If you really want to wake Shale up… well, it's yours now,” Matthias cursed.

 

“Except the command phrase I was told doesn’t work” Conrí replied. Matthias rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

 

“Hmmm, my mother might have passed the wrong command phrase along with the rod when she sold it; she said she never wanted to see that golem activated again. Look, I’ll tell you the command phrase, but I’ll need your help first! I know you saved my life and I’m grateful, but my daughter… Amalia, she was afraid and ran into my father’s laboratory before anyone could stop her. One of the men tried to go after her, but something in there killed him; defenses my father built to keep intruders out. I knew about the barrier, I had the key for that, but I don’t know about anything else; my mother and I never came down here!”

 

“How do you know something hasn’t happened to her? A single child, in the sanctum of a powerful mage...”

 

“I don’t, it’s true! I’m terrified something’s happened and she’s lying in there, injured. I can’t leave until I know for certain; surely you can understand that!”

 

Conrí sighed. “Alright, I’ll try to find her if I can.”

 

“Thank the Maker, bless you ser! My father’s laboratory is at the end of the passage; she has to be there!”

 

* * *

 

The tunnels leading down to Wilhelm’s lab were just as winding as those taken to get down from the surface, though mercifully devoid of bloodthirsty darkspawn. The tunnel finally came to a large open chamber at the foot of a wooden staircase, unnoticeable save for a large wooden platform at the room’s center, etched with all manner of strange runes. At the foot of the stairs was crouched a girl of about nine or ten, idly humming and talking to something out of sight. Conrí descended down the wooden stairs into the chamber and the girl looked up at the intrusion.

 

“Oh look, someone’s come to play. You have come to play, haven’t you?”

 

“Ah, you’re safe. Your father was worried,” Leliana smiled, extending a hand for the girl to come closer, but Amalia didn’t move.

 

“Father?” the girl asked blankly. “Oh, you can tell him I’m fine. Maybe he’ll come and stay with us,” she replied with a smile, before turning away. “Anyway, you should go if you’re not going to play. Kitty finds you distracting.”

 

“Kitty?” Conrí questioned. At this, a small, white-furred kitten emerged from hiding behind the girl’s legs, arching its back and rubbing itself against Amalia’s ankles, idly pawing at loose threads of wool at the hem of the girl’s dress.

 

“Come on, Amalia, we have to leave before the darkspawn return. You can bring the cat,” Conrí replied, trying to get the girl to move, but Amalia wouldn’t budge.

 

“I can’t go! Kitty says she can’t leave and I’m not going without her! She’d be lonely otherwise.”

 

At the sight of the cat, Koun let out a low, angry growl, fangs bared, hackles raised, and fur standing on end. Conrí rolled his eyes; what a time for the mabari to do what dogs do best, when they needed to convince the girl to leave with or without her new pet.

 

“Hmph,” a haughty female voice sneered from out of nowhere. “I would not suggest leaving in such hostile company anyway, Amalia. Look how vicious they are.” The group whirled round, utterly astonished, trying to find the speaker, seeing nothing… except for the cat, its small eyes glowing with an unnatural red light.

 

“Child, come away from that creature, now!” Wynne insisted, trying to reach out to pull the girl close, but Amalia merely shied away, scooping up the kitten and clutching it close to her chest.

 

“Nothing you say will convince Amalia to go with you. She loves only me now. I am her friend, whilst you are just a stranger,” the cat, or whatever was posing as a cat, replied, an air of triumphant smugness in its voice.

 

“A stranger who finds you very interesting, creature,” Xolana replied coldly. The cat’s eyes glowed again as that voice spoke with smug satisfaction 

 

“You hear that, Amalia? I have another admirer”

 

“That’s because you’re wonderful, Kitty!” Amalia beamed, hugging the creature to her chest. Xolana winced; the girl was about as safe holding that thing as she would be cuddling a cobra. She remembered the tattered journal they’d found outside the chamber; Wilhelm had been up to something in his lab, meddling and experimenting on an imprisoned demon. Clearly, with his death, the demon had been forgotten about and lingered on, looking for a way out of its imprisonment. At that point, the creature in the girl’s arms turned its attention to Conrí, its eyes glowing evilly as it spoke again.

 

“Release me, mortal, and let me have the girl. Let us return to her father and leave this place.”

 

“Have the girl?” Xolana spat, disgusted. “As in ‘possession’?”

 

“That’s such a crude way of putting it,” the demon retorted petulantly. “I do not wish to harm Amalia; I simply wish to see your world through her eyes. Is that so wrong?”

 

Conrí didn’t have to be a mage to know the demon was lying through its teeth; it could dress up the situation any way it liked, but there was no way he was going to let the girl become an abomination. Still, refusing the demon outright might make the situation worse; it could simply force itself on the girl or kill her to keep them from stopping it. Better to let the creature think we’re on its side, get it away from the girl and get her to safety, then destroy it, he thought.

 

“Alright” Conrí replied “I’ll free you.” Xolana and Wynne looked like they might argue, but Leliana silenced them; she’d realized what Conrí was up to. Fortunately, the demon didn’t notice this.

 

“Thank you, you are most gracious,” the creature replied. “There is a way around the wards, but the girl has not managed to find it. Perhaps you can succeed where she could not.” Turning his attention to the ornate, chessboard-like flooring laid out before him, and trusting that the others would keep watch on the demon, Conrí swiftly moved the pieces that allowed a line of fire to pass from one end of the floor to the other. It took a few moments, and Conrí kept flicking wary glances over his shoulder at Amalia, the demon in her arms glowering at him, its cat’s tail flicking impatiently from side to side. But finally, the stone pieces were properly aligned, and there was an audible hum of power dying down.

 

“Ah, I can feel the magic fading!” the demon cried jubilantly, leaping out of Amalia’s arms and moving towards the foot of the wooden staircase. “Oh, I’d forgotten what it was like not to be caged!”

 

“Kitty? What’s happening?” Amalia asked, confused. The cat-demon turned back to face the girl, but before she could get any closer, Conrí put himself between them.

 

“I said I’d free you; I didn’t say I’d let you live,” Conrí replied dryly, before the levity evaporated, and his sword was drawn, a glare as cold as the blade in his eyes. “Get away from the girl, demon!”

 

The cat’s eyes glowed brightly and it hissed, baring its fangs and arching its back as that cold, sneering voice snarled angrily “Betrayal! You will not take the girl, she is mine!” The cat turned its attention to Amalia and spoke, in a soft, plaintive voice “Come here, Amalia! Give yourself to me, let me into you...” but the girl wasn’t stupid; she couldn’t have failed to notice something was wrong from the exchange that had just passed.

 

“Kitty, you’re scaring me! I won’t let you inside me, I won’t!”

 

“Then I’ll take what I want anyway, you stupid little bitch!” the demon roared, tensing to spring, but before it could strike, a single movement of Blair’s hand set Kiba to the attack; with a keening howl, the mabari hit the cat like a thunderbolt, seized the demon in his jaws and angrily shook it from side to side before tossing it across the room; the cat flew across the chamber and slammed heavily into the wall, sliding to the floor. The creature gave an angry hiss and in a flash of light, it was gone, the voluptuous, seductive yet horrific form of a desire demon in its place.

 

“Get her out of here!” Conrí roared; Leliana seized Amalia by the hand and led the girl out of the chamber at a run. The desire demon screeched angrily at being denied its prey and tried to stagger after the fleeing girl, but Serena put herself between the creature and the way out. The desire demon’s sneer only widened as it stared at the dwarven woman who’d denied it its prize with undiluted hate.

 

“Fool!” the demon roared. “With my power, Amalia would have seen so much, done so much; that girl could have changed the world!”

 

“Only as your slave!” Serena spat in reply. The demon screamed a hateful battle cry, its claws outstretched, but Serena raised her shield, the claws scrabbling across the wood harmlessly. Then the shield was slammed with great force into the demon’s face, sending it staggering back.

 

“Serena, down!” Tristan shouted as the demon crouched, cat-like to pounce and sprung at Serena; she ducked as Tristan lowered his staff and a jet of ice engulfed the lunging desire demon, turning it into a statue of ice. As the thing fell, Serena put all her strength into a blow that connected with the demon around the level of its waist, shattering the desire demon like brittle glass.

 

They quickly raced back to the surface, to find Matthias and his fellow villagers outside, the man joyfully enfolding his daughter in his arms. “You saved her, I can’t believe it!” After reassuring his daughter that he was in no way angry at her for running off, just relieved to see her safe and sound, Matthias handed over a piece of parchment on which was scrawled a pair of words in an unknown language to Conrí. Serena leaned over and grinned. “Dulen Harn. Aye, that’s proper dwarvish, Commander.”

 

“That should work to activate that golem, if you still want that bloody thing. I wouldn’t if I were you, but we should go. Thank you again… for everything. We should be able to make it to Redcliffe. Thank you again, Grey Warden, and good luck.”

 

* * *

 

“Urgh, I knew the day would come when someone would find that control rod! Huh, and not even a mage this time! Probably stumbled upon the rod by accident… typical!”

 

The cynical, blunt voice that emanated from the orifice carved in the golem’s face that served as a mouth was nothing like Conrí had expected. “Er, hello to you too,” was all he could think of to say in reply. The command phrase had worked to awaken the stone creature, but the grouchy, irked tone was not what had been anticipated of a warrior carved from living stone.

 

“I stood here and watched those pathetic villagers scurry about for over thirty years,” the golem groused.

 

“How terrible. That must have been really, really boring” Leliana empathized, but the golem clearly wasn’t done using the first opportunity it had had in decades to complain.

 

“And then there was the darkspawn attack. I never thought I’d see anything more boring than the villagers, but there it was.”

 

“You watched the attack?” Alistair asked, incredulous and not a little unconcerned.

 

“Not as much as one might think; there was shouting and screaming and running about, and then days and days of watching the darkspawn prowl about. Are the villagers all dead?”

 

“Not all,” Wynne replied.

 

The golem idly shrugged its shoulders. “So some got away? How unfortunate.”

 

“You didn’t care for them, I take it?” Xolana asked.

 

“I’d have happily torn down their houses and stomped them all to paste. After thirty years of standing about in this village, I’d have done it twice. What I didn’t like was being ordered to do it. ‘Golem, bring that chair over here.’ ‘Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit,’ and let’s not forget ‘Golem, pick me up. I tire of walking!’ Bah!” the golem cursed, then cocked its head to one side, staring at the artifact in Conrí’s hand.

 

“It does have the control rod, doesn’t it?. I am awake, so it must have, but...”

 

“It does indeed,” Conrí snarked. “Right in its hand.”

 

“I see the control rod and yet… Go on. What is its command?” the golem snapped.

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Alright. Throw Garik over there as far as you can.”

 

“Hey!” Garik protested. “No dwarf tossing!”

 

“And… nothing. I feel nothing, no compulsion to obey. I suppose that means… I have free will?” the golem mused to itself.

 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Erin asked.

 

“I suppose, it is simply… what should I do? I have no memories, no idea of where to go. What about it?” the golem turned its attention to Conrí fully. “What about it? It must have had some purpose in mind when it woke me?”

 

“I can think of many uses for a personal golem,” Conrí smirked.

 

“May I ask what it gets up to which I might be of use for?” the golem asked wearily. 

 

“I am a Grey Warden, in need of aid against the Blight,” Conrí replied. 

 

The golem rubbed its rough-hewn chin thoughtfully as it considered this. “It refers to the darkspawn, the very creatures that destroyed this village. The darkspawn are an evil that must be destroyed, it’s true, though not as evil as the birds… damnable feathered fiends!” the golem bellowed. “Very well, I will follow it… for now. I am called Shale, by the way,” the golem added as an afterthought.

 

“Is that your name, or… what you’re made of?” Alistair quipped.

 

“It would prefer I was called Flint? Pebbles? How about Rubble?” Shale chortled. With nothing more to be said, the group made to depart from Honnleath before more darkspawn arrived together with their newest addition, a sarcastic golem with a dry wit and a burning hatred for any birds, as illustrated by Shale stomping a chicken into paste, along with a flock of pigeons who didn’t realize until it was too late that their favorite perch and feeding spot was mobile and eager to crush them.

 

So now I have an ornithophobic walking pile of rocks who killed the last person to own it to add to this collection of misfits I have at my side to defeat the Blight? Conrí mused cynically. The archdemon must be quaking in its boots!

 

“So, am I to understand that the dark haired one is yet another mage?” Conrí heard Shale rumble as it brushed bloody feathers from its rocky shoulders.

 

“Yet another mystical creature in our merry band of misfits,” Xolana smiled mischievously. “Am I to understand the stone-faced one takes issue with that?” 

 

“A mage with a smart mouth,” Shale snorted. “I thought they were normally squished while still in their larval stage.”

 

“Oh, believe me when I say they tried. But I couldn't let them cull me before I reach the reproductive stage, now could I?” Xolana snickered. “And besides... then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of meeting such an interesting individual, now would I?”

 

“Flattery. And obvious flattery at that. Oh well, I suppose it couldn't be any worse than dealing with my former master and his wife. Hag.”

 

“I suppose you and I have something in common there, then,” Xolana mused. “We both detest our former masters. Flattery or no, I imagine there is the potential for a beautiful friendship here.”

 

“True enough,” Shale allowed. “At least it doesn't remind me of the Hag. The woman wanted me outside, since I was too large to fit in the house.”

 

“Too large?” Leliana queried.

 

“I was once larger,” Shale boomed. “Ten feet tall! But the meddlesome hag had me shrunk down. Shrunk down! Can it believe it?”

 

“How does one shrink a Golem?” Conrí asked, having a hard time believing the golem could be anymore massive.

 

“With a chisel,” Shale growled. “And a lot of nerve.”

 

Xolana surprised everyone by getting truly angry. “So they tried to mould and shape you just like me, too. Can you be restored? Can you ingest stone, or would you be willing to try magic to restore yourself to your former glory?”

 

Shale seemed slightly taken aback. “Unfortunately, no. As far as I know, what damage is done cannot be repaired by anyone besides my original maker. However, I am still superior to other golems, no? I have free will after all.”

 

Xolana began to calm down and a grin spread over her face again. “I think you and I have even more in common than we may have thought. I like you, you big ol' hump o rock.”

 

“And I find myself becoming rather fond of it,” Shale chuckled. “Odd, yes?”

 

Xolana laughed. “Yes, odd. But embrace the oddity. It's what I do, and I've turned out fine, right?”

 

Shale chuckled. “If it says so.”

 

“And yet you're going to continue to refer to Xolana as it?” Conrí asked with a smirk.

 

“Yes, very likely.”

 

Conrí shook his head with a wry smirk and continued on.

 

* * *

 

In the late afternoon a few days later, after marching for most of the day, Conrí called a halt earlier than usual. Alistair cocked an eyebrow, thankful for the rest but wary of the de facto commander’s motives. “Set up camp Tira,” Conrí barked. “We have a few hours of daylight left. We may as well put them to use. And we need to hunt. Our supply of fresh food is running low and I don’t want to deplete our dry stock quicker than needed.”

 

After setting up her tent and bedroll, Tira slung her bow over her shoulder. “Xolana!” she called to the new recruit.

 

Xolana looked up from sifting through her bag of herbs, roots and extracts to glance about, confused for the moment until she realized the source of the voice. “Ah, Tira!” she smiled, scratching the back of her head bashfully. “Forgive me, I was in my own world there.”

 

Tira shook her head. “No worries. Come on, we drew hunting tonight and we better get started.”

 

Xolana paled slightly. “Oh... ok. I hope I can be more helpful this time...”

 

_ [Flashback] _

 

A week earlier

 

Conrí stood over the smoking remains of a deer, his expression one part exasperated, two parts amused. “Well...” he droned. “You killed it.”

 

“...that's a good thing, right?” Xolana chuckled nervously. 

 

“That's the general idea,” Conrí chuckled dryly. “But...” he drew his belt knife and cut into the deer, revealing the charred flesh. “The meat is burnt. Completely inedible.”

 

Xolana sighed, covering her face with her hand. “Sorry I got nervous...”

 

Conrí shook his head. “Fire spells are useful, but not while hunting. We’ve got enough meat to last the week at least. Next time, choose your spell with more care.”

 

Xolana nodded, abashed. “Yes, Commander...”

 

“Let's go.”

 

_ [End Flashback] _

 

Tira chuckled at the memory of the tale. “No fire spells this time. But don't worry too much. You have the Sabrae Clan's best hunter with you,” she added with a cocky grin.

 

Xolana nervously chuckled along. “Well I guess I'll just... follow your lead...” As they left the camp, Xolana sighed. “I am sorry... I am not usually so... what would you even call this? I mean to say, I do not usually complain and worry so much... but I have not been out of the tower long and while all I ever wanted was to leave, I feel like I've been nothing but an inconvenience so far. I apologize.”

 

“No need,” Tira assured the young mage. “You haven't been out of the tower since you were da'len. You have yet to get your feet wet, as they say.”

 

Xolana smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Tira. I suppose you are absolutely right. Then again, I guess you would very much know how I feel right now. This life probably took some adjusting to from your side, too, I’d imagine?”

 

“That is putting it lightly,” Tira nodded. “I had never been away from my clan before except on long hunts, and even then, I was never alone. And I’m still getting used to others not understanding Elvhen. If I slip and there's something you don't understand, let me know.”

 

Xolana thought for a moment. “Well you did say something just now... da... da'lah... no wait that is not right...” Xolana trailed off as she tried to wrap her mouth around the foreign word.

 

“Da'len?” Tira guessed. When Xolana nodded, the hunter chuckled. “It means small child.”

 

“Ah! That makes sense,” Xolana nodded again. “Forgive me... I have studied some languages as well as I could from books while I was at the Tower, but Elven is one I did not manage to learn much of yet.”

 

Tira frowned slightly. “Does the tower has books on Elvish? Written Elvish?”

 

“Well... no. Hence why it was impossible for me to learn Elvish. The best I found was a couple of books attempting to detail what of your history seems to have been recorded from our end, and those included a few words spelt phonetically in our tongue... But that was as much as I ever found. So... unless there was anything in the restricted libraries I had no access to...” Xolana sighed sadly. “A real shame... I would have loved to learn some Elvhen... I hope that is not pretentious of me...” Xolana noticed her companion frown with concern. “But you seem worried by the thought. Is something wrong?”

 

“Oh, it's nothing like that,” Tira assured her. “Hm. I may have to get a look at some of these restricted areas. If the circle has some elven books, I would be very interested to see them. Maybe I can strong arm my way past that Templar... then again, I can't exactly threaten to tear his arms off... not possible and I don't like repeating threats...” Tira had to snicker at Conrí’s rather colorful way of dealing with Cullen’s harassing of the mages.

 

“Well... I really do not know what to say,” Xolana told the elvish hunter. “Perhaps, should we ever return, I could see if I could gain access for you.”

 

“I'd appreciate… that...” Tira trailed off and pressed a finger to her lips. She pointed into the trees where a pair of deer stood in a clearing only a dozen yards away. She grabbed her bow from her shoulder and nocked an arrow. In a low whisper, she addressed her companion. “Can you hit yours from here?”

 

Xolana was startled by the sudden change in demeanor but caught herself once she realized what had caught Tira’s eye. She quickly judged the distance and nodded, summoning an Arcane Bolt while she waited for the hunter’s mark.

 

“3... 2...” Tira slowly inhaled and exhaled. “Now.” The arrow left her fingers with the twang of the string. Xolana let her magic fly almost simultaneously. Tira lowered her bow. “Nice shot. See? You can do when you're not burning everything in sight.”

 

Xolana chuckled nervously. “Yeah... I don't know what I was really thinking last time... but… Tira... how did you do that? One second you're talking to me all relaxed and the next...”

 

Tira twitched her ears with a grin. “The pointy ears aren't just for decoration, Xolana.”

 

Xolana looked surprised for a moment, then chuckled in earnest. “Ha, I suppose that is true! I must admit, I did not anticipate that response.”

 

“Well, they're not!” Tira snickered. “Elves have better hearing then humans. Though from what I can tell humans have better noses and dwarves have better night vision. But I guess that's kinda obvious...” Tira sighed and placed a hand to her forehead. “Great, Merrill rubbed off on me. Now I’m babbling.”

 

Xolana laughed. “But your babbling is adorable… and informative to boot. Please, continue.”

 

Tira led the way between the trees. “Well, humans are generally stronger, but elves have the advantage in flexibility. I can't really say for dwarves seeing as Serena and Garik are on opposite ends of that spectrum.”

 

“Flexibility, hm?” Xolana asked with her infamous smirk.

 

Tira smirked back before rolling forward onto her hands. She smoothly let her feet touch the ground again before her hands left the grass. She straightened up, the smirk still playing at her lips.

 

“Well, color me impressed,” Xolana couldn’t hold back a rather obvious leer. “Let me tell you, language and pride are not the only things your city dwelling counterparts have lost.”

 

“You obviously haven't been watching Blair too closely,” Tira commented fairly. 

  
“I can only speak of personal experience here. Unless, of course, the elves at the Tower were a skewed sample.”

 

“To be fair, mages don't have to do much that requires flexibility,” Tira told her.

 

“Unfortunately, this is rather true,” Xolana agreed, shaking her head.

 

“Well... not the kind of flexibility I just showed. Even First's and Keepers have those kind of needs,” Tira chuckled, drawing her belt knife and beginning to skin one of the deer. “Oh, right I better show you this part too. You have a knife?”

 

Xolana sighed at the change of topic but pulled out her own knife and kneeled next to Tira to watch.

 

“We can talk,” Tira assured her. Just do as I do.” The Dalish began demonstrating how to get most of a pelt in one piece.

 

Xolana began to copy on her own deer. “Like so?” she asked, looking to her companion for confirmation. “...you know, I imagined this would disturb me, but somehow... I mean, I feel sorry for the deer and all, and I have a strange feeling I can't really describe but... I am not disgusted like I thought I might be.”

 

“You're taking this better than I did,” Tira sighed. “After the first time I went hunting, I was crying for hours when I shot a rabbit. Still haven't been able to bring myself to kill one since. Deer aren't as cute.”

 

“Really? I find deer very beautiful... but... even so, it does not affect me so much as I thought it might.”

 

“Hm,” Tira contemplated. “Maybe I’m used to Halla. Normal deer seem... plain in comparison.”

 

“Halla?” Xolana asked, having never heard of such a thing.

 

“White stags that are revered like no other animal by the Dalish.They grow much larger than normal deer and the halla keepers carve their antlers as they grow. They pull our aravels and used to be mounts for our knights.”

 

“Wow... that sounds incredible,” Xolana breathed. “I would love to see one once.”

 

“Well, when we look for one of the clans, you'll get your wish,” said Tira with a smile. Xolana returned the smile and continued to follow Tira’s lead in skinning the deer.

 

“You're doing better than Merrill did the first time Tamlen and I dragged her out on a hunt,” Tira commented as their neared the end. “She was so nervous about ruining the pelt, she went slower than a snail.”

 

“Well... I do not want to ruin the pelt, but I figure the meat is more important, so slight damages will not matter too much? And if I do not try I will never learn.”

 

“It doesn’t matter much, but it means less sewing later,” Tira explained. “We use dear hide for clothes, quivers and armor. And the scraps for hilt wraps if I remember right.”

 

“Hm...” Xolana mused. “I shall try and be more careful after all, then. So... I hope you do not mind me asking, since we briefly mentioned it earlier... How DO you feel about having left home? Travelling with the Wardens… the outside world?”

 

“It was... daunting at first. As I said, I’d never been away from the clan.”

 

“But it is starting to become easier?” Xolana pressed.

 

“Little by little,” Tira nodded. “I still miss everyone. Tamlen and Merrill most of all. The three of us used to get in so much trouble together.” Tira chuckled as she remembered Hahren Paival nearly tearing his hair out when he’d catch the trio.

 

“Sounds like you were the best kinds of friends,” Xolana smiled. “I guess I miss things about the Circle too... but still, I am happy to be out of there.”

 

“So, you and Surana were actually friends?” Tira asked skeptically. “He hasn't said a civil word to anyone but you and Morrigan.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “Friends... yeah, you could say that! I suppose like you with Merrill and Tamlen, to be honest! I cannot think of much mischief we didn’t get up to.”

 

“Huh,” Tira still looked mildly disbelieving but shrugged. “I guess being outside the tower jammed a stick up his arse. I'm about ready to start headslapping him like Conrí does to him and Garik.”

 

“He....” Xolana sighed. “He has his own history. I hope he will relax into this new life soon, but I can see why you would not be impressed with him at the moment.”

 

“I hope you’re right, for his sake,” Tira shook her head. “I don't think the Commander's patience is gonna last much longer. You'd think sucker punching the Knight-Commander and then threatening to rip the arms off another would have earned Conrí something...”

 

“Well it was certainly impressive and... intimidating. I will give him that. Regardless... I hope so too.”

 

“So,” Tira sighed. “Speaking of our fearless, if slightly crazy leader, you have an opinion of him yet?”

 

Xolana thought about it for a moment. “Well, he seems to have his head screwed on straight, that is a start. Beyond that... he is rather attractive? I do not think I can say much more.”

 

Tira snickered. “That's right, you haven't been around to see what happens when Garik annoys him too much. Last time Garik got dangled over a waterfall with Conrí wondering if he really would sink like a stone.”

 

“....I should probably take back the ‘head screwed on straight’ comment, then,” Xolana deadpanned. “Though I would be intrigued to see that.”

 

“It was mostly revenge, to be fair,” Tira explained. “Garik made the mistake of swiping Conrí’s bottle of whiskey. Don't know why he’d want it; the stuff smells toxic if you ask me.”

 

“You never had alcohol?” Xolana asked, surprised.

 

“Nothing from grain,” Tira told her. “Only honey mead or blackberry wine.”

 

“Well... I can see why you might not like something as hard as whiskey, then. Truth be told, I prefer sweeter spirits myself.”

 

“Well, be careful about Dalish Blackberry wine,” Tira warned. “If you have a sweet tooth, it's addicting. Poor Merrill. Last feastday, she had a little too much and woke up with a splitting headache. It didn't help she loves blackberries to begin with.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “Oh I have had my fair share of excesses myself. I think I can empathize.”

 

“She'd never had a hangover before,” Tira explained. “The slightest sound almost drove her to tears. I felt so bad for her. She may as well have been the sister I never had.”

 

“I understand that sentiment,” Xolana smiled. “And yes, hangovers can be... terrible.”

 

Tira wiped her knife off and sheathed it. “Well this should be enough meat to last us a bit and the pelts should fetch a decent price. We better get back to camp. The sun is starting to go down.”

 

“Yes, you are right. Let us hope the others have not destroyed camp while we were gone!” Xolana joked.

 

Tira grimaced as she gathered the meat. “You had to say it...”

 

Xolana’s eyes widened. “...sorry...”

As the pair approached the camp, they both heard Morrigan shriek. “BLAIR! GET YOUR MANGY BEAST OUT OF MY PACK! I DO NOT NEED A HALF EATEN SQUIRREL IN MY UNMENTIONABLES!”

 

Xolana stared in horror. “...I just had to jinx it, didn't I... Um... what do we do now...?”

 

Blair poked her head out of a bush. “I'd like to know, too,” she said with a slightly mischievous look. Kiba panted happily as his head poked out of another bush beside Blair’s.

 

Xolana smiled at the Mabari. “Hey there, puppy! You been naughty again?” Kiba huffed smugly, making Xolana chuckle. “You're too sweet. Hm, let me see, I might have found some more crunchies for you in the last town... but only if you apologize to Morrigan.” Kiba whined, cocking his head. “Now, now, we're all in this together, we have to get along. Go apologize to her.” Kiba whined but trotted off. “There's a good boy,” Xolana turned back to Blair. “You going to stay there until you're sure Morrigan isn't angry anymore or....?”

 

Blair snorted, climbing out. “If I was waiting for that, I’d be here until the next Age. I'm just waiting for her to stop bellowing.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “I think you should go help Kiba before he gets skinned, poor pup.”

 

“Fine...” Blair grumbled, following Xolana and Tira back to camp. “It was his idea.”

 

As the trio approached, Morrigan could still be heard, admittedly at a much more reasonable level. “Do not be ridiculous. I am certainly not going to give you more, even if I did have more to give!” she scolded. Kiba could be heard whining. “Ugh. You have some nerve, creature. And your breath leaves much to be desired. Off you go.” Kiba begged more insistently. “We shall see,” Morrigan muttered. “I promise nothing.”

 

Xolana stared in surprise. “And here I was thinking he was going to apologize.”

 

“I think he did,” Blair chuckled. “But now he's back to conning food.”

 

“Mischievous little pup.... oh you would have gotten along so well with Tristan, Jowan and I at the tower.”

 

Conrí gave a rasping chuckle as he approached. “No one can resist puppy eyes from a mabari.”

 

“Too true, Commander,” Xolana agreed.

 

“There's an old Fereldan saying. ‘Whatever ails your soul, a dog will find a way to make it better.’”

 

“I have never heard of that, but I can see why they say so,” Tira chuckled.

 

Conrí scratched Koun behind the ears. “Kiba, why don't you go bug Serena for a bit. I think Morrigan is at the end of her rope with you at the moment.” Kiba huffed and trotted off, no doubt to cause more mischief.

 

“Why do the two of them not play with each other?” Xolana asked. “Surely Kiba would do less damage that way, adorable as he may be in the process.”

 

“Oh trust me,” Erin put in. “Koun wouldn't be preventing chaos. He'd be teaching Kiba how to cause more.” Koun barked happily.

 

Xolana laughed. “Now, now, Koun, that's not something to be proud of! How come I haven't seen that side of you yet?”

 

“Because he's been lulling you into a false sense of security,” Conrí smirked. Koun panted next to his master.

 

“Well aren't you a sinister pup!” Xolana giggled. Koun’s tail blurred as he seemed to grin smugly at the all too trusting mage. “Aww! I would pet you if my arms weren’t laden with dead deer stuff!”

 

Conrí chuckled. “Set it over there,” he gestured to the area near the fire. “It's Leliana’s night to make dinner.” Xolana nodded, obviously more relaxed than she had been before she’d left. 

 

“Oh, there you are Xolana,” Leliana smiled as the mage approached. “I had forgotten you and Tira drew hunting today.”

 

“Hi Leliana... yes I was not too pleased at first but it ended up alright! We brought two deer in the end.”

 

“No burns this time?” Leliana giggled. 

 

“Nope, none,” Xolana answered with an indulgent smile. “Only my pride is still singed.”

 

“Oh, don't take it too hard. The first time I went hunting, I almost shot myself in the head.”

 

“That is impressive,” Xolana giggled. “And terrifying.”

 

“Thankfully, it was just the bow itself smacking me in the head,” Leliana went on. Xolana started laughing uncontrollably at the mental image. While Leliana giggled. “I was rather mortified at the time, but it is funny, no?”

 

“Sorry,” Xolana stuttered, trying to suppress her laughter. “I really should not be laughing but... that mental image...”

 

“I had a bruise in the shape of my grip on my forehead for a week,” Leliana told her.

 

“...now that sounds less amusing,” Xolana looked concerned.

 

Leliana sighed with a smile. “You and Lady Cecile disagreed on that. Every time I would come down with no makeup I would see her shaking as she suppress her laughter.”

 

“Lady Cecile? I don't suppose we could be in for another of your story times? Because, you know, I really like your stories.”

 

“Oh, Lady Cecile was my mother's patron before she died,” Leliana explained. “Rather than turning me out on the street, Lady Cecile raised me. She taught me to sing and dance. And yes, shoot a bow. I was born in Orlais, but my mother was Fereldan. When the nobles began to get... irritated by any Orlesian presence in Fereldan, Lady Cecile took my mother with her when she returned to Orlais.”

 

“Sounds like you were lucky with this lady,” Xolana commented. “She was kind to you.”

 

“She was. Sadly, I have more memories of her than I do my mother. Strangely, the most vivid thing I remember of my mother was her scent. She kept small white Fereldan wild flowers in her clothes. Andraste's Grace, she called them.”

 

“Strange, the things we remember, isn't it?” Xolana asked.

 

“Um...” Leliana fumbled a bit. “Do you mind if... I ask about your family?”

 

“Well... I wouldn't mind, except there isn't much to tell,” Xolana admitted. “I was pretty young when I came to the tower. I remember that my mother had a beautiful, soothing voice and loved to sing... a bit like you, I suppose. Beyond that... I wouldn't know what to tell you.”

 

“Oh, I'm sorry...” Leliana grimaced. “I didn't mean to bring up something uncomfortable.”

 

“It's not uncomfortable, don't worry,” Xolana smiled. “I just... never quite know how to respond.”

 

The group chatted amiably through dinner and turned in early to get the day moving quickly when the sun rose. As the group finished breaking down camp, Bodahn came pelting up the Wardens. “Wardens!” he wheezed. “We have a serious problem!”

 

“NOT ENCHANTMENT!” 

 

“Bodahn, slow down what happened?” Conrí asked.

 

“The darkspawn march on Lothering!”

 

 


	18. The Fall of Lothering

 

“The darkspawn march on Lothering!” Bodahn panted as he held a stitch in his side.

 

Conrí’s eyes widened. Oriana... Oren.... “How far are they from the village?”

 

“About half a day's march, as they move. Lothering is only a few hours that way,” the dwarf pointed to the west. 

 

“Alright, Sten, Alistair, Garik and Shale, you lot are with me,” Conrí barked. “Erin, take Leliana, Tira, and Wynne and cover the villagers’ escape and Erin, make sure Oriana, Oren and Iona make it to Bodahn. Serena, Morrigan, Koun, Xolana and Tristan, I want you south of the village. If the spawn get here before Bodahn’s prediction, one of you needs to get word to me. Koun, boy, you follow Serena’s orders as if they were my own, understand?” the mabari huffed in agreement.

 

“Why so many of us to the south?” Xolana questioned. “You need as many as possible with you to help, surely!”

 

“I need you to pick off as many stray spawn as possible,” Conrí explained quickly. “You're buying the villagers time.”

 

Xolana looked like she would argue for a moment, but in the end she nodded. “...Of course,” she grabbed her pack and quickly checked her staff for weaknesses.

 

Conrí noticed her moment of hesitation. “This isn't a needless task, Xolana. Between you, Serena, Surana and Morrigan you should be able to hold them off for a bit.”

 

“I understand,” Xolana assured him. “I should not have questioned you. I realize this is important and I am ready.”

 

Conrí nodded. “Get going. And watch each other's backs out there. You're of no use to Fereldan dead.”

 

“Hey, Tristan, a real battle, side by side,” Xolana called falling into step with the others. “Just like we always wanted, huh?”

 

“And we're doing it for Fereldan. Hurrah, patriotism,” Tristan snickered.

 

“Patriotism... indeed. Still not entirely sure what to think of that word,” Xolana shook her head. “Regardless, do you feel ready?”

 

Tristan smirked. “I'm a Warden. Killing Darkspawn is what I do,” he said before sticking out his tongue.

 

“3 weeks and you already act like you've never been anywhere different,” Xolana chuckled. “Sometimes I don't understand you.” 

 

“Hey. I resent that. I've been doing this a whole two months I’ll have you know!”

 

“Ah, of course. Forgive me, dear mighty Grey Warden SER,” Xolana snickered with Tristan. “So you've had two months and couldn't find it in you to make friends? Were you really just waiting for me? Miss me so much?”

 

“Can't live without you Amell,” the elf drawled. “And I did make a friend. Morrigan over there.”

 

“Friends?” Morrigan chuckled dryly. “Is that what we are? Then the unbridled lust is mere happenstance?”

 

Serena rolled her eyes, remembering all too well when Tristan began visiting Morrigan’s tent. As if it wasn’t hard enough to sleep already.

 

“Aw you little sweetheart,” Xolana teased with a wink and a laugh. “I knew you'd miss me, I told you not to go. And don't worry, Morrigan, shows of idiocy are obvious signs of his affection. You've clearly addled his mind.”

 

“Mages...” Orzammar’s former princess muttered. “How did we get stuck with them, Koun?” The mabari gave an inquisitive whine.

 

“Oh come on, Serena,” Xolana shifted her teasing to the dwarven warrior. “We're about to storm into a potentially deadly battle. The least we can do is try to keep high spirits... right?”

 

“I rather hope that is not a comment on my height,” Serena quipped.

 

Xolana’s jaw dropped, realizing a way her words could have been taken. “Height... Urgh... wait... NO!” she cried, utterly dismayed. Serena gave Xolana her own patented smirk.

 

“She got you, Amell,” Tristan laughed.

 

“.......You........” the blood mage glared at Serena. “I was honestly worried I'd insulted you there! Don’t do that to me!”

 

“But it’s so much fun,” Serena snickered.

 

Xolana sighed wearily. “So.... how bad is it gonna be? What do you all think?”

 

The smile dropped from Serena’s lips. “It isn't the bulk of the horde,” she said, noting how her sense of the darkspawn had heightened in the past number of months. “That much I’m sure of. But.... there's gonna be a lot of the blighters.”

 

“Right... ok. But we can do this.”

 

“We're only buying time,” Serena assured her magical companion. “I've played this game before. If it starts getting hairy, we run.”

 

“Ok. In that case,” Xolana acknowledged. “Until you say something... I'll just keep attacking and healing, right?”

 

Serena nodded. “And you,” she looked up at Tristan. “If I get caught in one of your spells, I will kick you so hard in the balls you'll be singing soprano for a month.” Tristan was notoriously careless with his spells sometimes.

 

Xolana was having to restrain herself from laughing out loud. “Yeah Tristan, like when you thought it would be a good idea to surprise a sleeping Templar while he's supposed to be on duty...”

 

“He didn't see me. That time...” Tristan muttered. Xolana burst out laughing, unable to hold it in anymore. The elven mage chuckled as well before his attention snapped back to the approaching darkspawn. “Morrigan, do you have any forms that could help us? Preferably something big. With teeth. And claws.”

 

Morrigan smirked enigmatically before shape shifting into a large grizzly.

 

“That works,” Serena quipped, shouldering her axe.

 

“You ready for this, Tristan?” Xolana asked as she took her position next to him like they used to be back at the Tower, staff at the ready.

 

Tristan nodded. “Storm of the Century?”

 

“You take the words right out my mouth, Surana,” Xolana began calling up electrical energy. “God of storms and thunder, unleash thy wrath and destroy my enemy!”

 

“Let the flame of life be extinguished, and the cold embrace of death fall over the living…” Tristan incanted.

 

“Tempest!”

 

“Blizzard!”

 

The pair of storm fronts collided, creating an enormous spiral of elemental magic. 

 

“What the sod?!” Serena barked, losing her cool demeanor. “No one told me you can do that!”

 

Xolana laughed in exhilaration. “There are many things about us you do not yet know, Serena!”

 

“Ooh, look at me! I'm a mage; I can control the bloody weather....” Serena grumbled.

 

“Jealous?”

 

“Just kill the spawn, sparkle fingers,” the dwarf snipped.

 

As if to highlight her point, Xolana’s hands glowed and sparked with electrical energy. “That’s what we’re doing!”

 

Serena rolled her eyes and hopped up onto Koun’s back, drawing her axe and gripping his collar loosely. The mabari looked back at her unhappily, grumbling. “You know I’d never keep up with you otherwise,” Serena pointed out. Koun merely grumbled some more but didn’t shake her off.

 

“Serena, you're mistaking Koun for a horse!” Xolana teased as she mowed through one Darkspawn after the other.

 

Serena ignored the mouthy mage and urged the mabari on. “Come on!” Koun barked and charged into the fray, ripping into darkspawn as Serena swept her axe out to cut down the beasts that Koun missed.

 

Xolana stared. “...I take everything back. It's very effective. Carry on.”

 

“Can I get that in writing?” Serena called, beheading a hurlock before having Koun circle around.

 

“When we've made it safely back to the others, sure,” Xolana barked. She and Tristan continued to cast their spells as Morrigan used her bulk, teeth and claws to rip into the darkspawn. 

  
Serena’s eyes snapped up toward the Wilds. “Oh sod.... Ogre...”

 

“Blast,” Tristan panted, casting as quick as he could. “I feel it too.”

 

“....hope you've all eaten a good breakfast,” Xolana groaned, leaning on her staff. She’d never been in a battle like this before. Even Honnleath had barely held enough darkspawn to be an issue. But this seemed like the bulk of the horde in comparison. And now the heavy hitter of the army was heading directly for them. 

 

“Whatever you do, don't let it grab you...” Serena advised, climbing off Koun and strapping on her shield. 

 

“Oh don't worry I plan on keeping my distance,” Xolana assured the dwarf, gripping her staff.

 

Morrigan looked around, sniffing the air and listening before shifting back to her human form. “Fall back. The others have most of the villagers away. I’d imagine our illustrious leader has his pack mates safely in hand by now.”

 

“But that Ogre will destroy everything!” Xolana protested.

 

“The village is more defensible,” the witch reasoned. “We will need help to bring this behemoth down.”

 

Xolana growled under her breath but agreed and grabbed Tristan, pulling him with her. “Most of the villagers are away,” Serena snipped. “What's the issue?”

 

“Key word: MOST,” Xolana snapped.

 

Serena groaned in exasperation. “They’ve plenty of warning. If they’ve not evacuated by now, they’re on their own. We have to do the best with what we have.” Xolana bit back a comment about how the Wardens should be there to protect the people. “We're not alone, Xolana. Like I said, the others are keeping an eye on the villagers.”

 

Xolana slowly started to accept the dwarven princess’s words. “Ok. You are right. Let us make it back before that.... thing,” she looked over her shoulder. “Catches up to us.”

 

“Don't worry,” Serena’s words were belied by a worried smile. “Half of us have experience bringing down an ogre.”

 

“I'd rather not test that theory,” Xolana told Serena as she followed the dwarf through the gates.

 

“Help me close the gate! Get that side!” Serena called gesturing towards the other half of the gate. Xolana nodded and pressed against her half, trying to shove it back into place, but the gate was heavy. “Put your twiggy legs into it!” Serena grunted with her back pressed against the logs and her legs trying desperately to shift the contraption. Xolana muttered something very rude about dwarves under her breath but Serena caught the gist of it. “I'm curvy, not stubby, thank you very much!”

 

“And I'm tall,” Xolana growled with rage and finally pushed so hard the gate actually budged. “Not…. TWIGGY!!!!

 

Serena merely grunted and shifted the gate. Morrigan joined Serena, reverting to her bear form adding her immense strength to the dwarf. Tristan, taking a page from Morrigan’s book, transformed into a smaller black bear and helped Xolana with her side.

 

Xolana doubled over in fatigue as the gate shut. “There you have your filthy gate,” she panted, trying to catch her breath. “Stupid stone woman…”

 

Serena pushed off the gate, grabbing her axe and shield. “Oh, are we keeping that going?” she asked with a roguish grin. “I thought we were just doing that using the berserker method. Anger equals strength.”

 

“It certainly helped in the moment,” Xolana grumbled.

 

“That was the point,” Serena chuckled, sticking out her tongue at the blood mage.

 

Xolana sighed in frustration. “Honestly Serena... an insight into that stone you call a heart would be greatly appreciated sometimes.”

 

“Heart to heart later, ladies,” Garik interjected as he ran up. “We've more pressing matters at this moment.”

 

“There's an ogre coming, we know...” Xolana grunted. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, please Maker, don't let there be something else.”

 

“Um,” Garik stammered. 

 

“....there is more, isn't there.”

 

“Yeeeeeeeah, 'bout that....”

 

Xolana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Enough of this folly, like you said, more pressing matters! OUT WITH IT!”

 

“There's about twenty Hurlocks moving WITH the ogre,” Garik rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

 

“..... does anyone have a plan?” Xolana sighed.

 

“Yeah,” said Conrí as he approached. “Run like hell, hope that Hawke family knows where they're going, and they don't cross paths with the ‘spawn.”

 

Xolana eyes widened. “...Hawke? Did you just say Hawke?”

 

Conrí frowned. “Yeah, eldest daughter is a woman named Marian. You know them?”

 

“They...” Xolana stammered. “They're my cousins... I haven't seen or heard from them in.... of course, I forgot they lived in Lothering...” Xolana shook her head and looked at Conrí imploringly. “I have to find them. I have to help them! Where did they go?!”

 

“To the northwest. The village is empty. But the spawn are encircling the area. We have to hurry.”

 

“Well... what are we waiting for!?” Xolana demanded, already turning towards where Conrí had gestured to head off.

  
“Let's go!” Conrí beckoned the others who had gathered. “One last thing then we can get out of this pit!”

 

“Aunt Leandra... Marian...” Xolana muttered as she ran. “I'm coming...”

 

Conrí quickly caught up. “Sten, Shale, Alistair, Morrigan! The six of us are gonna clear the way! Don't stop moving! We don't have time to be competing for points! Leliana, Garik, Tira, Surana, Wynne, Serena, and Erin; pick off those we pass or that are trying to follow. Bombs, traps, whatever, but it has to be quick!”

 

“So I am to be used as a battering ram,” Shale snarked. “Typical.”

 

“Xolana, I need you to be careful with your shots,” Conrí told the young mage. “Lighting will work better than fire at this point.”

 

“Understood,” Xolana answered, fingers and staff sparking with power as the group moved. A loud argument could be ahead of the party.

 

“Wait... Where are we going?” a young female voice asked.

 

“Away from the darkspawn, where else?” a male voice answered.

 

“And then where?” the first voice demanded. “We can't just wander aimlessly.”

 

“As long as we wonder away from the Darkspawn, I’m happy,” snarked a second male voice.

 

The group came over a ridge, spotting a small group of people. A cursory glance told Conrí this was the same family he had directed away from the wilds when he’d sent Oriana, Oren and Iona towards where Bodahn was waiting.

 

“We can go to Kirkwall,” said the matriarch of the Hawke family… Leandra, Conrí believed her name was.

 

“Well, that wouldn't be my first choice...” Marian, the eldest sibling, told her mother uneasily. 

 

“I know it'll be difficult,” Leandra reasoned. “But we have family there. An estate.”

 

“Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship,” said Bethany, the younger daughter.

 

Conrí growled as they neared the path the Hawkes were taking. “Sod... Darkspawn up ahead. Your family is headed straight for them.”

 

“We have to get to them in time...” Xolana panted, drawing her staff as the group scrambled over a hill. When they came into sight, the Hawkes had engaged a group of darkspawn alongside a red haired brick wall of a woman. Conrí recognized her as an officer in the army and remembered her skill with a sword and shield. “Shit, LEANDRA!” Xolana prepared a spell to launch for as soon as they were in range.

 

“Xolana, hold it together,” growled Conrí. “Last thing we need is a misfire hitting an innocent.”

 

“You know I wouldn't risk that but we have no more time to,” Xolana cried. “I don't know if they can hold their own!”

 

Conrí turned and barked behind him. “Erin, Tira, Leliana, give them some covering fire!”

 

The trio drew their bows and nocked arrows. “On it,” Tira called, sighting down the shaft.

 

Xolana, finally within range, started picking off the first couple of darkspawn archers as the group continued to gain ground on the Hawke family. Conrí slid down the hill next to Sten and Serena to stand next to Marian and her brother Carver. “Not that I don't appreciate the back up,” Marian started. “But who the void are you?”

 

“Friends,” Conrí grunted, tightening his grip on his sword. “We'll make formal introductions when this vermin is properly put down. SHALE!” he barked. “Squish them, if you please!”

 

“It says the nicest things to me!” Shale cackled as it threw itself at the darkspawn.

 

“What.... was that?” asked Garret, the youngest of the of the Hawke siblings.

 

“A golem,” Serena supplied. “Trust me. Don't get in front of it.”

 

Conrí collided with a group of darkspawn, using the length of his sword to shove them back towards a cliff. “Sten!” he shouted. The Qunari moved quickly, adding his mass and strength to Conrí’s driving the beasts off the sheer cliff face. Both warriors watched for a moment as the darkspawn were ripped to shreds by the sharp rocks lining the rock wall. Once the pair of Greatsword wielders were sure none would climb back up, they returned to the fray. 

 

Xolana conjured a tempest to deal with a larger cluster of darkspawn before returning to picking off single ones. When most were dead, the mage caught a glimpse of more on the horizon. “We've almost got them all, but there are more coming!” she called.

 

“I'm surrounded by Apostates...” muttered the templar accompanying the red-haired woman.

 

“The maker has a sense of humor,” Bethany scoffed. “First darkspawn and now a templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering.”

 

“The spawn are clear in their intent, but an apostate is always unknown. The order dictates...” Conrí stepped between the templar and Bethany and the mages with him, his eyes like fire-hardened steel. Xolana killed the last archer standing on the crest of the hill before looking towards the horde on the horizon, to judge the distance. Once she was sure the ‘spawn were far enough away, she slid down to join the others, making sure to stay behind the acting commander. 

 

“Wesley, dear, they saved us,” the woman warrior. “I'm sure the order will make an exception this one time.”

 

“He has no power over the mages with me anyway,” Conrí growled. “We're Grey Wardens.”

 

“I thought you all died at Ostagar,” Carver rumbled.

 

“No,” said Erin shortly. “Only most of us.”

 

“Yes I recognize some of you,” said the warrior woman. “My name is Aveline Valen, and this is my husband, Ser Wesley.”

 

“My orders are clear,” Wesley groused. “But for the moment, we are allies, Grey Warden.”

 

“Just keep him away from my family,” Marian snapped, her grip still firmly on her spear.

 

“Agreed,” Conrí growled, his eyes having never left the templar and his hand never leaving his sword.

 

While the group was arguing, Leandra had turned to Xolana. “Pardon me, dear, but do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, frowning slightly.

 

Xolana froze and slowly turned her head to Leandra, suddenly unsure how to react. She had not expected her aunt to recognize her and now, after all this time, she had no idea what to say. “I... well... I mean...”

 

“Can this wait, Mother?” Bethany asked impatiently.

 

“Of course,” Leandra turned back to Xolana. “I'm sorry dear, you just look so familiar.”

 

Xolana caught herself. “You... you must be mistaken. I have lived my life in the Circle of Magi, but now I am a Grey Warden. We would have never had a chance to meet. More importantly, we have to get you to safety.”

 

Conrí frowned slightly at the mage but didn’t mention. “Madam Hawke, where are you headed?”

 

“We were hoping to catch a ship in Gwaren to Kirkwall,” Leandra explained, but Conrí shook his head.

 

“Gwaren is a no go,” he said. “Gwaren is Loghain's land. You'd be better off catching a ship in the north. I know a small town not too far away along the Highever/Amaranthine border where people don't ask questions.”

 

“Kirkwall... Kirkwall should be safe,” Xolana muttered in a slightly dejected tone. She realized that this meant she would probably never be able to speak to them again, should she ever gain the courage to.

 

Conrí frowned again, obviously annoyed. “It'll be a few days at least before we get to North Beach. We better find Bodahn. He has our cart.”

 

“Commander... we're going with them?” Xolana asked, almost disbelieving. 

 

“A captain owes me a favor,” Conrí grumbled. “With how the old bastard works, odds are I’ll have to appear in person. He’s quite paranoid.”

 

“Then let us not waste any time; the horde I saw is approaching as we speak,” Xolana beckoned the group.

 

Conrí’s eyes snapped up. “Sod. Everyone move!” he barked. “That damn ogre is headed this way!”

 

“How--?” Bethany started.

 

“Run now! Explain later!” Garik bellowed, taking off.

 

Xolana grabbed the two Hawkes closest to her by the arms and started dragging them along. “Hurry! Now!” Bethany and Marian looked at each other for a moment then picked up speed to match the odd woman dragging them. Everyone else quickly followed.

 

As they came to a plateau, Conrí threw out his arm and slid to a halt. “Andraste's ass, we're surrounded!” he swore. “Circle up! Mages and non combatants in the middle!”

 

Xolana turned to the Hawkes. “Stay behind me, we've got this. Tristan, you ready!?”

 

“Always, Amell,” the elf grinned, drawing his staff. 

 

“You two ain't leaving me out!” Marian barked. “Spirits of fire,” she intoned, her hands becoming wreathed in fire. “I call upon your rage, unleash your wrath on the fools who stand before me, turn winter to summer, night to day, and burn all with the breath of hell… INFERNO!”

 

“Oh the irony...” Xolana chuckled mirthlessly as a twister of flames engulfed a small crowd of darkspawn. “An apostate amongst the Hawkes...” 

 

Bethany touched a finger to a scratch on Xolana’s cheek and healed it. “Two actually.”

 

“This just gets better by the minute,” Xolana sighed. “But thank you.”Xolana returned her attention to casting spells at the approaching darkspawn.

 

“Time to throw you in the deep end and see if you can swim, Xolana,” Conrí grunted. “The ogre's almost right on top of us. I need you to keep the Hawkes and the templar safe. I won't be able to watch them while I’m dealing with big, tall and ugly.

 

“See, Carver,” Garret nudged his elder brother. “People notice you.”

 

“Oh shut up,” Carver grumbled.

 

“I've got them commander!” Xolana nodded. “Leave it to me.”

 

The darkspawn came over the ridge and the Wardens lost themselves in the fury of the battle. Spells and arrows flew while blades seemed to cut though the darkspawn armor like tissue paper. Marian proved her power with spells by felling the ogre that had been pursuing the group with a powerful ice spell, allowing Conrí to free Carver from the beast’s icy grip before it could pummel the young man. Carver had darted out to stop the charging beast but had ended up snatched by the ogre. Were it not for Marian’s quick thinking and spell craft, Carver would have no doubt met a violent end not dissimilar to the late King Cailan.  


Conrí tossed Carver back to the group during a small lull in the fighting. “Use your head, boy,” he snapped. “Ogres are nothing to mess with. Be grateful your sister is as powerful as she is. Now, stay back and let those who know what they’re doing fight.” Carver glared at the heavy chain clad warrior as he moved to stand beside his sister. Marian soon got the brunt of the glare, listening as Carver muttered about his big sister saving him once again. 

 

“There's no end to them!” Bethany panted after what seemed like hours.

 

The Wardens crowded around the non wardens as the ‘spawn closed in. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Garik muttered, gritting his teeth as he slashed through a genlocks face.

 

Xolana used a couple of crowd control spells that she could risk without damaging anyone, but by this stage she was running low on mana. “Running a bit low on options here commander...!” she called.

 

“I'm out of Lyrium...” Wynne panted.

 

Behind the group, an earth shattering roar rang out. Perched atop the hill was the massive form of a high dragon. “What the--?!” Conrí barked.

 

“And now a fucking DRAGON!?” Xolana yelped. “Come on!”

 

“Welp we're boned,” Garik sighed. The beast swooped over the group, ignoring them completely as its flaming breath burned through a crowd of darkspawn. “Or..... not?”

 

“It's.... helping us...?” Xolana stuttered. “Morrigan? Tristan? Some... animal insights? Please?”

 

“I believe...” Morrigan sighed. “’Tis my mother.”

 

“Oh well that.... wait, WHAT?”

 

The dragon had landed, gripping a burning hurlock in its forepaw. It seemed to be studying the group as it began glowing. After a long moment, the dragon seemed to shrink, taking the form of a human. “Well, well,” Flemeth purred. “What have we here? I saw something most curious. A mighty ogre slain. And not even by a Grey Warden.”

 

“That's a neat trick,” said Marian, her glibness hiding her uncertainly. “How did you learn to turn into a dragon?”

 

“Perhaps I am a dragon,” Flemeth cackled. “If so, be thankful the smell of burning darkspawn does nothing for the appetite.”

 

“Well good to know it's not only us she speaks in riddles to,” Tristan muttered.

 

“Ah, Grey Wardens,” Flemeth grinned wickedly. “Good to see you haven't become a meal for the Archdemon yet.”

 

“Enchanté, Madame,” Xolana nodded, receiving an odd look from Tristan and Leliana. “What? You knew I was interested in learning languages, Surana! Orlesian isn't that exotic!”

 

Flemeth chuckled. “Oh, you I like.”

 

“I'd be concerned were I you, Xolana,” Morrigan advised.

 

“....I think I'll just... shut up right now,” Xolana muttered.

 

“Worry not, for you are not of the most interest to me today. You, however,” Flemeth turned to Marian. “Hurtled into chaos, you fight... and the world will shake before you,” Flemeth walked a few paces away and seemed to speak more to herself than to anyone else in the clearing. “Is it fate or chance? I can never decide,” the old witch turned back to Marian, a wicked gleam in her eye. “It seems fate smiles on us both this day. I will ask a favor in return for your lives. Take this amulet to a clan of Dalish elves outside Kirkwall. Do this, and your debt will be repaid.”

 

“There must be a catch,” Marian said skeptically. 

 

Flemeth cackled. “There is always a catch. Life is a catch! I suggest you catch it while you can.”

 

Xolana growled quietly, having heard how Morrigan was Flemeth’s price for saving the other Wardens. “Leave them out of this, Flemeth. You've already meddled with us Wardens and your own daughters life... the Hawkes go free, and peacefully.”

 

“No, it's alright, Warden,” Marian interrupted. “We're headed to Kirkwall anyway. Though I must ask, why can't you take this yourself?”

 

“I have... an appointment to keep,” Flemeth told her evasively.

 

“Thanks for your help... again Flemeth,” Conrí commented, sheathing his sword after wiping it clean of darkspawn blood. “I don't suppose you have another daughter you want to hurl at us?”

 

“No, I think one is more than enough,” Flemeth cackled making her daughter grit her teeth in agitation.

 

“Thank the Maker for that,” Alistair muttered.

 

“I hate you all,” Morrigan snarled.

 

“Now before I go, there is one last thing...”Flemeth turned to Aveline, who had set a weakened Wesley against a boulder. The templar gave a weak cough as Flemeth approached.

 

“Get away from him!” the warrior barked.

 

“What has been done to your man is in his blood even now,” Flemeth told her sadly. 

 

“You lie!”

 

“She's right Aveline,” Wesley told her. “I felt it when it happened. All that taint...”

 

“Damn...” Conrí muttered. “I didn't realize until now. He's got the blight sickness.”

 

“There must be something we can do...” Marian murmured. Though she bore no love for the Templar Order, she couldn’t wish this even on those who had hunted her and her family all her life.

 

“The only cure I know of is to become a Grey Warden,” Flemeth intoned, looking to Conrí.

 

Aveline scrambled over to the tall warrior. “You have to help him, Warden!”

 

Conrí sighed sadly. “I can't.”

 

“Can't or won't?!” Aveline barked, remembering the disdain and sheer hatred in this man’s eyes when he’d first spied Wesley.

 

“I can't!” Conrí snapped. “I don't know how to go about the Joining! It isn't as easy as, ‘You're a Warden,’ Poof!” 

 

Xolana hesitantly spoke up. “Besides.... the taint has already advanced far. He is weak. By this point, chances are he would not make the joining... even with our best intents.”

 

“Then what can we do?” Marian asked.

 

“I hate saying this...” Conrí shook his head. “But the kindest thing would be to..... put him out of his misery.”

 

“What?!” Aveline yelped.

 

“The blight will kill him,” Erin told her. “Slowly and painfully, or turn him into a mindless ghoul and eventually kill him anyway.”

 

“I do not harbor much love for templars,” Xolana admitted. “But I have lived surrounded by them for most of my life, so let me tell you this much... for one of his kind, an honorable death will most certainly be preferable to what this taint has in store for him.”

 

“The choice is yours, Aveline,” Marian said after a long moment. “We can't decide his fate.” Conrí nodded in agreement.

 

Aveline’s expression was stricken, but she nodded. “Be strong, my love...” Wesley whispered, drawing his belt knife and placing it at his ribs. Aveline wrapped her hands around his. After a nod from Wesley, she shoved the knife into his heart. Wesley gave a single gasp of pain before going limp, his expression peaceful. The others looked away to give the couple their privacy for this final moment.

 

“Without an end, there can be no peace,” Flemeth informed the grieving Aveline. “It gets no easier. Your struggles have only just begun....”

 

“Xolana, Tristan, Morrigan,” Conrí turned to the mages. “Send the man off proper.” Tristan nodded while Morrigan rolled her eyes but complied. Xolana hesitated only a moment before helping. Before long at all, Wesley was burning brightly. Once Conrí was sure the fire was reducing Wesley to ash, he turned to the others. “Come on. We need to get going. The spawn are on the move.”

 

“...Come on,” said Xolana, gently pulling Leandra and Marian away.

 

“Bodahn and Oriana shouldn't be too far,” Erin sighed.

 

As she spoke, a familiar voice echoed towards them. “Wardens! Where the blazes are you?!”

 

“Well... speaking of the demons themselves...”

 

“ENCHANTMENT!”

 

“Bodahn!” Conrí called. “Are Oriana and Oren alright?”

 

“Oh, aye!” Bodahn replied as the cart came into sight. “Right here with me and my boy!” he gestured to the familiar forms of Conrí and Erin’s sister-in-law and nephew. “And they brought a little elven lass named Iona!”

 

“Sandal, be a good boy and help us,” Xolana shouted. “I found some more runes for you if you're good!”

 

“Enchantment?” Sandal asked, his eyes sparkling in excitement.

 

“That's right!” Xolana chuckled.

 

“Enchantment!” Sandal began helping everyone load their gear into the back of the wagon.

 

“We have far to travel and not a lot of time to do it,” Xolana beckoned the Hawke family. “Let us not delay any further. Lea-... Lady Hawke, are you and your family alright? Can you travel? You were not hurt?”

 

“I think we're just a little shaken, dear,” Leandra smiled. “Thank you.” She climbed into the back of the cart.

 

“Thank you for the help...” Bethany paused with an embarrassed giggle. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

 

“I...” Xolana hesitated.

 

Bethany immediately looked worried. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot....”

 

Tristan came up and slapped Xolana on the shoulder. “This is unlike you! What's wrong with you, Amell? Cat got your tongue? Or are you eyeing our temporary companion already? You always did have strange tastes.”

 

“Amell?” Leandra poked her head back out. “Did you say Amell?” Marian and Bethany turned to the rapidly paling mage. 

 

“No, no he... um...” Xolana stuttered.

 

Tristan continued in his usual tactless fashion. “...Did I say something wrong, Xolana...?”

 

“Not helping, Tristan,” Xolana hissed.

 

“Xolana Amell?” Leandra gasped. “Oh my... You're Revka's daughter, aren't you? I thought I heard your name called on the battlefield but in the heat of the moment I wasn’t sure…”

 

“I...” Xolana’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.... Aunt Leandra, I...” She was cut off by Leandra scrambling out of the cart and pulling her into a hug. Xolana stood shock still in bafflement before awkwardly returning the hug. “You.... you remember me...?”

 

“Of course, dear. I was there when you were born,” Leandra cried. “Your mother was so distraught when you were taken to the Circle.”

 

“I... I don't really remember... I assumed that... well...”

 

“It's alright dear. You were so young. Come. We have a lot to catch up on. Marian, Carver, Bethany, Garret you too,” Leandra beckoned her children towards the back of the cart.

 

“You... you want to ‘catch up’ with me...? But I am a mage...” unhelpful emotions of resentment began swirling in Xolana’s mind. “And you...” she pointed to Marian and Bethany. “You are mages too... you were never sent away, only me!”

 

Rather than getting angry, Marian appeared sad. “It wasn't easy. We were always on the run. If it hadn't been for our father, we would have been in the Tower same as you.”

 

“Even those of us who aren't mages....” Carver muttered, glowering at his eldest sibling.

 

“Shut up, Carver,” Garret growled.

 

“...No one ever even told me...” Xolana mumbled, still feeling spiteful. “No one ever even came to talk to me. I thought you had all forgotten about me. And my mother, my father...?”

 

“The Circle is very picky about visitors and letting messages in,” Leandra told her sadly. “And last I heard your parents had moved to Highever. People in their village where harassing them. None of us forgot you.... We just thought it would be better if you forgot us....”

 

“...Highever... harassing?” Xolana grit her teeth. :...How could I forget? You were my family.”

 

“This is a conversation for another time,” Wynne cut in. “Lady Hawke, please get back in the cart. We do not have much time.”

 

Leandra sighed and did as she was told, casting a mournful look back at her niece. Xolana opened her mouth as if to say one final thing but then just clenched her fist and moved away, continuing further towards the head of the group to get away.

 

Conrí head slapped her as she passed. “What was that for?” Xolana grumbled, not truly complaining.

 

“You know exactly what that was for,” Conrí growled. “Your family was certain they'd never see you again and thought it would be easier on you if you forgot about them.”

 

“I don't want to talk about it, Conrí,” Xolana muttered. After several moments of feeling Conrí’s glare on the back of her head, almost worried it would combust, she turned back to her commanding officer. “...forgive me Conrí but... it is just not something I expected to be confronted with. Especially not now.... not with all that is going on.”

 

“I get it,” Conrí relented after a moment. “But do you have any idea how much I would give just to have one more conversation with my father? To hug my mother one last time? You have that chance. Don't let it pass until you really think on it.”

 

Xolana was silent for several minutes. When she spoke, she sounded tired and guilty. “.... You... you are right. I am letting foolish, childish emotions blind me. I will... speak to my aunt and cousins once I have calmed down.”

 

“A wise choice,” Conrí told her. After a few moments more of silence, Conrí head slapped Xolana much more lightly.

 

Xolana smiled slightly at the awkwardly affectionate gesture. “Sorry for being... difficult.”

 

“Just don't make a habit of it,” Conrí advised. “I'd hate to have to smack you like I do Alistair.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “I highly doubt anyone could ever need as much smacking as that old nug-head.”

 

“You got close,” Conrí smirked.

 

“Ouch,” Xolana managed an honest chuckle. “Ok, so I was being more than just silly. It will not happen again, Commander.”

 

“Good. Could you do me a favor and check on Oren. I didn't like the sound of that cough. Last thing we need is my nephew catching sick,” 

 

“Of course,” Xolana agreed. “I know a few healing spells should he start coming down with one after all.” The mage moved back to check on their youngest charge.

 

 


	19. The Road North

_Denerim- Three weeks earlier, while the Wardens were clearing the Circle Tower._

 

“I bring news sire,” Howe reported to Loghain. “There are demands from some of the Bannorn that you step down from the Regency. While small, they are gathering their forces, as are your allies. It appears that there will be civil war after all, despite the darkspawn threat. Pity. I also have some strange news. It appears some of the Grey Wardens survived, including the Cousland Twins. How, I don't know but they will act against you for betraying them at Ostagar. I have a solution with your leave.”

 

A small elf stepped out of the shadows. He had wild bleach blond hair and cocky grin. The man's skin dark enough to match his brown weathered armor and dark red daggers. “The Antivan Crows send their regards,” the crow greeted with a smile.

 

“An assassin?” Loghain demanded. “If these Wardens have indeed survived, then we may well need their assistance again the darkspawn if for no other reason than to gather their allies. So why do you suggest we kill them, Howe?”

 

“They can do more than kill. For a very hefty fee, they can capture the Wardens and bring them to us. Once we have them, we can… persuade them to side with us and give us the treaty to amass an army so we can crush not only the Blight, but Orlais as well. Besides, against the Grey Wardens we need the very best.”

 

The assassin laughed as he added arrogantly, “And the most expensive.”

 

Loghain narrowed his eyes at the elf when he asked, “So sure you can get the job done?”

 

“Against a group as small of theirs, most likely,” the Crow nodded. “We have hired a number of mercenaries just in case, however.”

 

Loghain scowled. “Just get it done.”

 

Howe and the assassin bowed before they left Loghain to his drink. Once they were out of the room, Howe stopped the Crow to give him further orders. “I want those Cousland brats in chains when you bring them. If you cannot, then they must die.”

 

“They are that much a threat to your power?” the assassin asked with amusement.

 

“The Cousland lands are under my control now. If they live to side against us and tell everyone what happened at Ostagar, then we lose all support,” Howe stated.

 

“Then why not just kill them?” the assassin asked.

 

“Lord Loghain is… stubborn. The Cousland brats impressed him. Last thing I need is to lose his backing… But if they were to have an unfortunate accident, I suppose it can’t be helped.”  


The Crow’s brow furrowed. There was a tale here, but it was none of his concern. “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

_ Present _

  
“So,” Erin droned. “We're bringing along the assassin that just tried to kill us. My brother does have the tendency to pick up strays, doesn't he?”

 

Barely a day out of Lothering, the wagon had come under attack by a group of assassins hired by Rendon Howe. The Wardens noticed the attackers seemed to be holding back on them in particular. Taking advantage of this, they kill most of the group, leaving only their leader alive. After learning who he was, and who hired him, Conrí decided to spare the Crow, Zevran Arainai, intending to use the assassin as more firepower against Howe.

 

“We're taking him along? How curious...” Xolana mused. “I should think that if he was good enough to be helpful to our cause, most of us would no longer be here.”

 

“To be fair, my dear, you did have more superior numbers and skills than I was led to believe.”

 

Xolana nearly jumped out of her skin not expecting him to be right behind her and listening. “WHA-... WHO... YOU... How dare you sneak up on me like tha-...”the mage finally caught a good look at their assassin. “....You’re the Assassin...? 

 

“You were expecting a dwarf perhaps?” Zevran asked, noting her look of cautious disbelief.

 

Xolana studied him for a moment. “It is not your race that I am referring to. I could not possibly care less if you are an elf, or a human, or any other sentient creature inhabiting this land. But your overall appearance... shouldn't assassins usually be... more.... well...”

 

“Unremarkable?” Erin supplied, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “She has a point. You do stand out quite a bit.”

 

“Well yes.... you are just so very... noticeable. I mean... tattoos, not hiding the fact that you're an elf trained for battle, bright hair...”

 

“Ah, but you forget,” Zevran smirked. “All of that can be covered by a good cloak and efficient movement.”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow. “How very... inconspicuous of you. I see we are dealing with a true master.”

 

Erin gave a rather unladylike snort. “Seems like the Crows are more bark than bite.”

 

“Such cruelty,” Zevran chuckled.

 

Xolana chuckled as well. “Forgive us.... um... I don't believe you ever shared your name, and somehow I doubt you'd like to be addressed as Crow, given that you're stuck with us for now regardless.”

 

“Ah, how rude of me. I am Zevran, one of the Antivan Crows sent here specifically to capture and/or assassinate any remaining Grey Wardens in Fereldan. And you, my ladies?”

 

“Erin Cousland,” Erin gripped her sword. “And I’m not interested.”

 

“Erin, don't be so rude,” Xolana laughed. “You don't have to trust your new companion to at least be amiable with him. I am Xolana Amell, delighted. Though, as you may have gathered, I still see no reason to trust you... yet.”

 

“A pleasure, my dear. I will endeavor to make myself worthy of such trust,” Zevran winked. 

 

Erin raised a ginger eyebrow. “Does that really work on women?” she asked, almost disbelieving.

 

“He is really rather forward, isn't he?” Xolana chuckled again. “As flattering as your attentions are, you will have to do better than just flirt with me if you wish to gain my trust. You did after all try to kill us...”

 

Zevran sighed dramatically. “Capture was the ideal outcome. And I assure you; it was nothing personal. Just business.”

 

“Then I will be eager to see whether this ‘just business’ is truly behind you,” Xolana crossed her arms. “Do not misunderstand me - should you prove yourself to be a sincere and loyal companion to us, I will never doubt you for a second and defend you to the death. But, should you turn out to be a backstabber.... there will be no walls, no dungeons, no army that will stop me from finding you and killing you in the slowest, most torturous way I can imagine.”

 

“You have the most delightful crease between your brows when you are serious,” Zevran grinned.

 

Xolana, not expecting that particular response, was thrown totally off balance. “I... uh... what... thanks?... I mean...”

 

Erin chuckled at her companions addled expression. “You're obviously not used to dealing with Antivans.”

 

The mage recovered quickly. “I may have learnt the language from books, but people are always a different story, you should know that,” Xolana told her, resisting the urge to begin pouting. “It's not like I had a chance to get out much!”

 

“Why is that, if you do not mind me asking?” Zevran queried 

 

Xolana sighed. “I guess that information is harmless enough. I was raised as a Circle mage, if you know what that means.”

 

“Ah, yes. I have had... experiences with the Circle of Magi. Admittedly, this was in Antiva. I have never met a mage in Fereldan before.”

 

“Well then allow me to greet you in the name of all damned souls trapped in the tower. I can only hope our brethren in Antiva receive better treatment and accommodation.”

 

“You're a whole new kind of damned now, Xolana,” Erin told her, picking at the cord holding her Warden’s Oath.

 

“Yet I prefer it,” Xolana went on. “I may not be free in the traditional sense, but for once I am alive completely. I can see the world through my own two eyes and experience a life I once believed a distant dream. So what if I have to kill a few Darkspawn along the way and face the almost inevitable likelihood of chaos, death and destruction in the fight against the archdemon in payment? I would change nothing. For once my companions are truly my friends and my magic,” she smirked as she lit a small flame on the tip of her index finger. “Is mine to use as I see fit,” She flicked the spark at Alistair's backside as she seemed to have become fond of doing and laughed at his dismayed reaction.

 

“Xolana!” the former templar whined. “Why do you keep doing that?”

 

“Because it's fun, and your reactions are so adorable,” Xolana winked at him as her laughter died down to a chuckle.

 

“Is this sort of thing... common?” Zevran asked.

 

“Almost constant,” Erin droned.

 

“What, Crows never have fun? By your previous demeanor I assumed you'd enjoy this,” Xolana smiled at him with a curious expression.

 

“I never claimed lack of enjoyment,” Zevran grinned roguishly. “Quite the opposite in fact.”

 

Xolana studied him for a moment, her smile widening. “Well, I think you will fit right in, then!”

 

“Welcome to the madhouse,” Erin sighed.

 

“Great,” Conrí groaned, shouldering his claymore. “More crazy.”

 

“It was your idea to bring him along,” Alistair pointed out, still rubbing his backside.

 

“Oh stop being so pessimistic. I like him. He adds a bit of color to you lousy lot,” Xolana blew a raspberry at them, Conrí in particular.

 

“Charming,” Conrí rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh, lighten up,” Leliana giggled. “She isn't that bad.”

 

* * *

 

“Ugh,” Carver groaned as Conrí retrieved his bow from the back of the cart where the Hawkes were riding. “How far is this place?”

 

Several days had passed between this moment and the evacuation of Lothering. Oren had developed a slight cold, worrying Oriana, and everyone was antsy. Xolana and Wynne worked to clear up Oren’s illness in shifts. 

 

Aveline hadn’t said much since her husband had been laid to rest, but would occasionally send bitter glares at the Wardens. She knew it was unreasonable, but she could help the feeling her husband could have been saved if these people had been more seasoned in the ways of the Grey Wardens.

 

“About another week,” Conrí answered, testing the string of his bow. “We can't cut through Bann Loren's lands. We don't know if he's thrown in with Loghain or not. So that adds another few days.”

 

“Blast...” Carver grunted as he moved to climb out of the cart. “I need to stretch my legs.”

 

“Be careful, Carver,” Leandra called

 

 “Yes, mother....” Carver sighed, indignant to still be treated as a child.

 

But apparently one of the dwarves disagreed. “You might wanna get yourself some armor if you're gonna be out among the adults, nugget,” Serena advised as she ran a dry rag over the bit of her axe. It had sustained some damage in the tower and during the fights at Lothering, but it was nothing a whetstone and a polishing couldn’t fix. 

 

“This coming from the woman who doesn't clear my belt line,” Carver scoffed.

 

Xolana approached the pair from behind. “You should be careful, Carver. That woman who doesn't clear your belt line has a mean head butt. And she’s carrying an axe.”

 

“Ah, our wayward cousin,” said Carver boredly. “How did you end up slumming with the Wardens?”

 

Xolana chose to ignore the “wayward” comment and just nodded in acknowledgement. “How did you end up on the run with apostate mages? I suppose it's what you'd call ‘family business’ on both counts... though our definitions of ‘family’ might differ these days.”

 

“Trust me. Family is not all it's cracked up to be,” Carver scoffed again, earning a glare from Erin, who had been doing her best to avoid the grumpy warrior. 

 

“At least you have a family,” Xolana retorted. “I have a couple of friends perhaps, and the Wardens.”

 

“At least you don't have to worry about living in someone's shadow,” Carver shot back.

 

Marian sighed from her place next to the cart. “Carver...”

 

“Never mind,” the warrior muttered.

 

Xolana laughed scornfully. “Funny that you should say that. Did you know that I have spent most of my life in the tower wondering whether my parents had another child after me? One who wasn't a mage? One who was normal? Whether they compared us? Whether they even still thought about me at all?”

 

“I.... uh....”

 

“Quit while you're ahead, big brother,” Garret advised, a smirk on his face from witnessing his elder brother’s discomfort. “Unless you want to go for the other foot.”

 

“I guess you're kind of... the Alistair of the family,” Xolana chuckled.

 

“Hey!” Alistair called. “I resent that!”

 

Xolana stuck her tongue out at him playfully, then turned back to her family. “I... wanted to apologize for my behavior a few days ago. It was entirely uncalled for…”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Marian waved her cousin’s apology off. “We deal with worse daily from tall, dark and broody over here.”

 

“Oh, go soak your head...” Carver growled.

 

“Well, I wouldn't know about that,” Xolana shook her head. “I haven't exactly given you all a chance to get to know you.”

 

“Well, why don't you come back here with us?” Bethany suggested. “Little Oren's napping so we'll have to be quiet.”

 

Xolana nodded with a grateful smile that the Hawkes were still willing to talk to her. “I could use a break,” Marian grunted, grabbing the side of the cart to climb up. “You coming, Carver, or are you gonna keep brooding?” 

 

“Ugh. I think I need a break from all of you,” Carver headed towards the front of the little caravan. 

 

“...He... doesn't seem very happy. If I said something wrong...” Xolana muttered.

 

“It was nothing you said,” Marian sighed, resting her staff on against the side of the cart. “He's convinced he's living in my shadow even though Bethany and I have to stay in the shadows. And Garrett makes his living there.”

 

“That... reminds me eerily of how I myself felt for too long...”

 

Bethany shook her head sadly. “He's been this way since Father died. Carver was upset Father put Marian in charge instead of him. Something about being the eldest son.”

 

“Well... Marian is older still, is she not?” Xolana asked.

 

“By about three years,” Marian nodded.

 

“So... surely, the eldest is in charge,” Xolana reasoned. “As is proper.”

 

“My dear twin brother has it in his head that to be a leader you have to be big and strong,” Bethany rolled her eyes wearily. “And probably carry a big sword.”

 

“It is precisely that attitude that has lead to countless wars in the past, I fear,” Xolana lamented.

 

“He's a good person. Just....” Bethany couldn’t think of how to continue, so her elder sister supplied an answer for her.

 

“Stubborn as a constipated Bronto. And twice as thickheaded.”

 

“Marian... that is a rather rude comparison!” Xolana protested, though she was fighting a laugh. “Yet.... One I shall remember.”

 

“Garret's the rogue. I'm just the smart mouthed mage of the family,” Marian said. “Subtlety is not a requirement for my place,” she stuck out her tongue.

 

Xolana laughed in earnest now. “You know... if things had been different, you and I might have been great friends.”

 

“I think you might be right,” Marian agreed. “No way we can convince you to hop on the ship with us?”

 

“Marian I...” Xolana looked torn. “I would love to... I really want to, believe me. But...”she looked wistfully towards the rest of the Wardens. Conrí was scanning the horizon with Tira and Garik. Whether they realized it or not, the trio looked like the ideal Grey Wardens, coming from all walks of life. A human noble, a castless dwarf and an elf of the wandering Dalish clans all working together to make sure those under their protection were safe. Serena was chatting amiably with Erin, discussing their training and childhoods. Even Tristan had loosened up slightly, speaking easily with Blair. “I belong here now. I swore and oath... I can't just leave my duty behind. And if no one stays to fight... then you won't be safe, even in Kirkwall, now will you?”

 

Marian sighed. “You had to appeal to my sense of duty didn't you, cousin? Alright. We'll make the best of the time we have. And when we leave try not to get eaten by darkspawn please.”

 

“Don’t worry cousin... I plan on seeing this through until the bitter end,” Xolana smiled.

 

Several moments of comfortable silence passed between the cousins. “So.... you're travelling with quite a few lookers. I've even seen Bethany watching your commander with.... quite a bit of attention.”

 

“Marian!” Bethany protested, a red blush staining her cheeks. 

 

Xolana laughed. “Now this I did not expect, cousin! But I must agree. And Bethany,” she grinned evilly at her embarrassed cousin. “I can certainly see why.”

 

Marian nudged Bethany teasingly. “Those eyes....”

 

“Knock it off...” Bethany mumbled, her blush deepening.  


 

“Oh come on Bethany,” Xolana cried, throwing her arm around her cousin’s shoulders. “This is exactly the kind of conversation we need for some sisterly bonding, do you not agree?”

 

“What if he hears us?” Bethany squeaked.

 

“Oh, he probably does,” Xolana told her. “Our dear commander appears to have the uncanny ability of hearing everything.”

 

“No, you're safe,” Erin assured them from her place on the back hitch of the cart. Serena had moved forward to inquire as to where in the void they were going. “He and Carver are arguing about the quickest way around Bann Loren's land.”

 

“Yet, here you are... and undoubtedly, our dear commander will hear of this,” Xolana narrowed her eyes.

 

“You think I tell my twin everything? Please,” Erin scoffed.

 

“Well so far it has proved exceedingly true.”

 

“Really?” Erin cocked an eyebrow. “You think I told him about the first time I had sex?”

 

Xolana was silent for a brief moment, considering. “I would not put it past you? I feel sorry for the poor resulting dismembered soul, though.”

 

“Ugh,” Erin rolled her eyes. “My brother wouldn't have laid a hand on her. If anything, he would have been jealous.”

 

“Ooh, saucy! Color me intrigued!”

 

“Her?” Bethany asked, eyes wide.

 

“Men don't do anything for me,” said Erin dismissively. 

 

“Good to know,” said Xolana with a slight leer, though really not feeling it at the moment.

 

“Is that why your brother told Carver he was wasting his time?” Bethany asked.

 

“Certainly, that would make sense,” Xolana acknowledged.

 

“He has to do something,” Erin shrugged. “He can't exactly threaten the men I’m interested in. I've yet to meet such a man.”

 

“Women are so much more fun than men, anyway,” Marian added, picking at her nails.

 

“You also, cousin?” Xolana asked. “I find this conversation highly enlightening.”

 

“I can appreciate both sides, but...” Marian went on. “Women, more often than not, are more..... flexible.”

 

“Marian, dear...” Leandra started. “No. Never mind. I'm... going to talk with Miss Wynne for a bit.” The Hawke Matriarch clambered out of the cart.

 

“If you are looking for a less explicit conversation,” Xolana chuckled. “Wynne is indeed a sensible option, Aunt Leandra.”

 

“Do you mind if I join you?” Leliana asked. “My legs feel like they’re about to fall off.”

 

“Rogues,” Erin snickered

 

“I resent that,” Garret snarked.

 

“You're back here too, little brother,” Marian poked her sibling.

 

“I'm lazy,” Garret rolled his eyes. “Doesn't mean I’m a pansy.”

 

“Leliana, perhaps you could entertain us with a story, or a song?” Xolana asked, immediately trying to keep the conversation from going too far out of hand. “That should sway these negative opinions!”

 

“Sure...” Leliana rested her cheek on her palm. “Hm let me think...

 

“Something to lighten our spirits, Leli, please?” Xolana begged.

 

“Oh, put the pout away, Xolana,” Leliana chuckled. “I'm just trying to think of the right one...”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Xolana waited impatiently.

 

“I think I have it. The tale of the Grey Warden Garahel. The elf who ended the last blight. What do you think?”

 

“That sounds wonderful!” Xolana exclaimed. The Hawkes remaining in the wagon turned to listen with their cousin.

 

“Three cities, all in the Free Marches, claim the honor of being the birthplace of the Hero Garahel: Hasmal, Markham, and the great city of Starkhaven itself,” Leliana began. “Whichever city it was, Garahel was born and raised in an Alienage, the son of free but impoverished elves. This was in the Black Age, a time of war............” Leliana spun the tale of the Warden Garahel, enthralling her listeners. Even Erin, who had heard the story many times as a girl, listened raptly.

 

“.......It is written that so many darkspawn were slaughtered on that field that many thought they were vanquished forever,” Leliana wound her tale down many minutes later. “They must have been sorely weakened, truly; for it has been four hundred years since Garahel's victory, and only now have the darkspawn recovered enough strength to challenge Thedas.

 

A song is still sung about that battle: _The Ballad of Ayesleigh._

 

_ The wind that stirs _

_ Their shallow graves _

_ Carries their song _

_ Across the sands. _

 

_ Heed our words _

_ Hear our cry _

_ The Grey are sworn _

_ In peace we lie. _

 

_ Heed our words _

_ Hear our cry _

_ Our names recalled _

_ We cannot die. _

 

_ When darkness comes _

_ And swallows light _

_ Heed our words _

_And we shall rise._ ”

 

“Thank you Leliana... that was beautiful as always,” Xolana smiled.

 

“She always told the best stories after mass in the Chantry,” Bethany told her cousin.

 

“Oh of course, I forgot that you would have known each other from before,” Xolana smiled.

 

“I must admit, I was surprised to see you fighting with the Wardens, Leliana,” Marian told the bard. “This have something to do with your vision?”

 

“Of course,” Leliana nodded. “I can do much more fighting the darkspawn than I could shut up in some nunnery.”

 

Xolana seemed surprised. “Wow I thought you kept your vision mostly secret.” Of course she had heard of the Bard’s vision after overhearing Leliana and Conrí discussing it but was unaware any besides the Wardens knew of it. 

 

“I did. Bethany convinced me I should tell someone, but....” Leliana sighed. “Well, let's just say my peers didn't put much stock in anything that contradicted their view of the world.”

 

“I understand, Leliana,” Xolana nodded. “I understand all too well. Do not forget I grew up with Templars... some of whom had very, well, fixed world views. I can no longer count the number of times I was caught in an act deemed ‘unbefitting’ or ‘unseemly’ and punished ‘accordingly’... More often than not, it was always the same Templar who caught me - I must say he did watch me rather closely. Then again, he was really rather suspicious of me and my on doings; with good reason, it would seem, since he took every possible opportunity to shame and punish me with his favorite bare bottom spanking. One might think he would tire of this endeavor after a while of realizing that his punishments were fruitless, but I daresay he enjoyed it.” Xolana stopped when she realized she was getting scandalized looks from inside and outside the cart.

 

Bethany was red as a tomato when she stuttered, “A.... templar? Dear, maker....”

 

“Cousin, you have gone so red, are you not feeling well?” Xolana asked.

 

“I uh.... I.... I think I need some air....” The young apostate almost flew out of the cart.

 

“I think you broke my sister,” Marian droned, though she herself was unnerved.

 

“Maker's breath...” Leliana murmured. “Why didn't you mention this to the First Enchanter, Xolana?”

 

“What, that I was being punished on a weekly basis for even more mischief than he already knew about?” Xolana shrugged. “I wasn't his favorite, but I was certainly among his best pupils... I was not going to jeopardize that if I ever wanted a chance of leaving the tower.... so, I was ready to take my chances with the Templars, so long as they didn't suggest making me Tranquil. Besides, I did not realize for a very long time that this was not the... usual punishment procedure. When I was still a child, after all, others would punish me in a similar fashion, as they would us all.”

 

“And people wonder why I detest templars,” Erin scowled.

 

“It really was not all that bad. I could certainly think of worse punishments, and in an odd way I learned even to relax into this one when I was in the right frame of mine. It was not so unlike pleasure, sometimes.”

 

“Hm. Part of me finds what you say hard to believe.... yet the rest of me is not surprised in the least,” Zevran chuckled.

 

Xolana jumped once again at the sound of Zevran's voice. “Since... since when have you been listening in!?” the mage caught herself and took on a somewhat more mocking and playful tone. “I always knew you were a scoundrel... I should have known you would enjoy that story.”

 

“Oh, immensely my dear,” Zevran grinned wickedly. 

 

“Well, enlighten us, my dear Antivan friend,” Xolana crossed her arms. “What's going on in that depraved mind of yours? That cannot possibly be all you have in mind, knowing you.”

 

“My dear, there is a child present who may wake at any moment. I'd rather not scar him for life.”

 

Xolana’s tone became purely mocking. “Wooing and murdering victims far too numerous to count is one thing for our assassin of hearts, but enlightening a young child about the carnal pleasures of life before time is rife, now that is just immoral.”

 

“Well, his mother is not far and.... let us just say, her family is rather infamous in Antiva.”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow. “Now I am intrigued.”

 

“Zevran,” Oriana growled warningly.

 

“Pardon me, Signora,” Zevran bowed slightly.

 

Xolana eyed Oriana carefully and decided it might be in not only Zevran's, but also in her best interest to not pursue this line of questioning further. “Well...” Xolana cleared her throat somewhat worriedly before returning to a playful tone and smirking at Zevran. “I suppose we can discuss your imagination further at a more... prudent time?”

 

Zevran returned the smirk. “As you will.”

 

“Lunch time, I think,” Conrí called as he made his way back to the cart. “Here's as good a place as any.”

 

Xolana’s attention was dragged away from both Zevran and her family for now. “Who's on which duties today? Amidst all the excitement I've lost track.”

 

“Since there are more of us now, we need one more. Marian if you wouldn't mind coming with Xolana and I?”

 

“Sure,” Marian shrugged, hopping out of the cart.

 

“This should be interesting, cousin!” Xolana was oddly looking forward to this.

 

“No doubt. Garret, lend me your bow.”

 

The youngest Hawke sighed. “Fine,” he said, hanging the yew bow over. “Don't break it.”

 

Xolana looked somewhat dubiously at the bow. “You know how to use that? Why not stick to your magic?”

 

“Magic while hunting?” Marian asked. “Wouldn't that draw attention?”

 

“I guess it would, if you were not travelling with Grey Wardens. We don’t have any trouble with it.”

 

“Now who's the lucky one,” Marian smirked. “You get to travel with handsome men and beautiful women and use magic whenever you want. I'm green with envy cousin.” She chuckled as she joined her cousin and the Warden Commander as they made their way into the brush.

 

“You know, I never thought about it that way...” Xolana mused. “Though I was always aware of how lucky I was to finally leave the Circle... albeit under rather different circumstances than I ever would have dreamed.”

 

“How did you get out?

 

“Well...” Xolana sighed. “I suppose with the blight and everything else that has been going on, it is no wonder no one would have heard about what happened at the Tower.”

 

“Oh?” Marian pressed.

 

“There was.... an uprising, of sorts. Many of us Mages were becoming sick with the Chantry's treatment and... well. Things got ugly.”

 

“Ugly?” Marian asked warily.

 

“Abomination type ugly,” Xolana clarified.

 

“Who's bright idea was it to go messing about with demons?” Marian shook her head.

 

“A bald moron named Uldred,” Conrí growled, his eyes peeled for signs of prey.

 

Xolana was unsure how much to give away about herself to reveal. “He convinced... Many... of the Circle Mages that we would be able to free ourselves if we followed him and learned Blood Magic. At first what he spoke of sounded good. Freedom from the Circle - finally being considered real living creatures with souls again, not just demons waiting to be happening hiding behind the masks of Humans, Elves.”

 

“Wait... you're a blood mage?” Marian asked, eyes widening.

 

Xolana walked in silence for a long old time before finally daring to speak. “I am not proud of what I did, and I don't use this power lightly. I am well aware of the dangers and the... temptation.”

 

“Just be careful cousin,” Marian advised. “And for Andraste’s sake, don't mention it to Bethany, and especially not my mother.”

 

Xolana sighed. “Yet more secrets to be kept.” She looked in back towards the wagon. “But I understand.”

 

“Bethany is already scared enough of her magic. I don't want her to be scared of us, too, Xolana,” Marian explained.

 

“You... you also?” Xolana stared at her cousin, wide-eyed.

 

Marian grimaced slightly but rolled up her sleeves to reveal a few scars. “Only in real emergencies, but... yeah…”

 

“That... I never thought...” Xolana breathed. “How is it possible that you and I are both so similar?”

 

“Well, we are cousins,” Marian shrugged.

 

“Even so... I never thought that, you know... we would both turn out to be... how shall I say it? ‘Emergency blood mages?’”

 

“Well, not to sound cruel cousin... but we did it for very different reasons,” Marian rolled her sleeves down again.

 

“I am not going to try and defend what I did. You are entitled to say that. Might I ask how it came about for you, though?”

 

Marian looked away. “It's not a day I like to remember.... But you do deserve and explanation.”

 

“...you do not have to speak of it if it hurts too much, cousin...” Xolana muttered.

 

Marian shook her head. “It was about three years ago now. My father sent Bethany and I to get Carver after the sun went down. We talked as we were walking but I began to get this weird feeling. Like I was being watched. About halfway to where Carver had headed, when a pair of bandit's jumped out of the bushes. One shoved me down while the other stuck a knife in Beth's face, demanding all our money. Of course we didn't have any. So.... they decided they were gonna take a payment another way.”

 

Xolana’s anger flared. “I think I can imagine how this story continues. Dirty disgusting abominations of men…”

 

“The first idiot had me pinned with a knife to my neck,” Marian went on. “I was scared, I’m not ashamed to admit.... but hearing my sister scream.... well, let's just say my fear didn't last long. I started to fight and the bandit nicked my neck pretty bad. I grabbed his face and used a fire spell. I'm sure you can imagine what happened.”

 

“Yes.... yes I can,” Xolana was itching to pull her cousin into a tight hug but didn't dare.

 

“As he's rolling around, screaming in agony, I turn to look for where Bethany had gotten too....... that image.... will haunt me to my dying day. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for whatever power I could. I didn't realize until later that I had powered that lightning spell with blood magic....”

 

“I... I understand that. I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Xolana tried to console her cousin, though Marian didn’t seem to hear her.

 

“I ran to Bethany. Her dress was shredded.... I'm only grateful.... I stopped the bastard in time.... I managed to calm her down somewhat..... and her first words were, ‘Sister... you're hurt...’”

 

“...the strange things we notice when everything around us crumbles. I've heard of weirder but... I can understand why that would preoccupy her more than her own problems,” Xolana nodded.

 

“That's who Bethany is... worrying about a cut more than what almost happened to her. She reached up and healed it. She's always been better at creation magic than I am. I managed to get her up and gave her my cloak. When we got home, Mother almost lost it. Once Father was sure she was alright.... I saw a look in his eyes I’d never seen before... he grabbed his staff and asked if the other man was still alive. I told him I thought so and he left without a word. He came back.... smelling like smoke... and dragging Carver, who was not pleased either, but for a different reason. Father had laid into him something fierce that night... That worried me... Father never yelled.... matter of fact, you could rarely get a straight answer out of the man. Everything was a joke... He told me to meet him outside... I thought I was in for it. We walked a little ways from the house and he turned to me. But he didn't say a word. Just pulled me into a hug. I hadn't cried since I was a little girl, but after a moment, I just started bawling... He knew, even without me saying anything, that I’d used blood magic.” Marian’s head dropped as she finished her tale.

 

“....Your father... sounds like a great man…”Xolana was almost in tears herself at the story.

 

Marian wiped her eyes. “Yeah... I miss him. So much... When he died.... everything fell to me... I've been trying not to screw it up too bad but..... Carver.... well, it hasn't been smooth sailing…”

 

“It sounds like Carver has a lot of unresolved issues which... well, might be handled if he just gained more... insight, to what it's like being you and Bethany.”

 

“He's too stubborn,” Marian shook her head. “I try to be fair, but he picks most of the fights. Bethany hates it, but Garret.... Garret never really forgave Carver for that night....”

 

“I can see why he might be angry but in all honesty... unless I'm missing something it's not really Carver's fault either,” Xolana frowned.

 

“It wasn't but Garret only sees that if Carver had been home when he was supposed to be, we wouldn't have been attacked,” Marian explained. “And we wouldn't have had to leave that night. My father feared the templars would be on us by daybreak so we packed what we could and shoved it in the one cart we had. We had been living near Amaranthine at the time, so we headed south. To Lothering.”

 

“I... can see why this would cause tension,” Xolana admitted.“Did you ever find out why Carver returned so late?”

 

Marian’s expression became somewhat sour. “Apparently he was meeting with his... friends. Bunch of arses, the lot of them.”

 

“I take it he was also not too happy about losing his bunch of arses, though,” Xolana questioned warily.

 

“No, not in the least,” Marian’s voice became gruff as she imitated her brother. “‘Why do we have to leave because Marian was too stupid to stab them?!’ Garret punched him flat for that. For such a skinny boy, he sure packs a wallop.”

 

“...I am starting to dislike Carver, despite what I said previously.”

 

“He's an ass...” Marian sighed. “But he's still my brother.”

 

Conrí, after being silent the whole time, holds out an arm to stop Xolana and Marian. “Hold....”

 

Xolana was about to say something but closed her mouth, looked to Conrí and followed his gaze to find out what's going on.

 

Conrí grabbed an arrow, knocked it and drew the bowstring. “Two in the clearing... not fifty paces.... looks like.... wait...” he lowered his bow and motioned for Marian to do the same. “Halla.”

 

Xolana looked confused. “But that would most likely mean.. Dalish? Here?”

 

Conrí shook his head. “No. Wild. They're not pulling anything and there's no pen. Still, I’d rather not try to feed Tira Halla.”

 

“But even for wild Halla, this is a strange place to be,” Xolana frowned. “Something doesn't seem right.”

 

“Halla show up in the oddest places,” Conrí reasoned. “Rather like raccoons in that regard.”

 

“Well then perhaps I'm worrying for no reason,” Xolana shook her head, realizing her commander had much more experience with such things. “I suppose they look rather calm, so we should be safe to continue along this path.”

 

“Aye,” Conrí nodded and moved further into the forest.

 

“Doesn't say much does he?” Marian quipped to her cousin.

 

“He's more of the ‘strong and silent’ type of leader,” Xolana chuckled.

 

“Hm. I see why Bethany likes him,” Marian smirked appreciatively, looking the taller warrior up and down. Without his usual armor, Marian could admire Conrí’s muscled frame a lot more. He had decided on a thick leather vest over his worn undershirt, along with a sturdy pair of trousers and a pair of worn, but comfortable leather boots. His forearms were covered by a set of scale mail gauntlets over a pair of fingerless gloves.

 

Conrí scoffed. “Your sister could do much better than me,” he grumbled, examining the grip of his bow.

 

“You shouldn't put yourself down, Conrí,” Xolana winked. “You have your charms.”

 

“If you say so,” Conrí rolled his eyes. “I spotted some boar tracks back there. If we're lucky, we'll be having pork tonight.

 

“Urgh...” Xolana groaned. “You men and your pork.”

 

“Are you telling me you don't tire of venison every night?” Conrí cocked an eyebrow. They’d been hunting as frequently as they dare to make their dried goods stretch. More often than not, deer was the end result since rabbits could barely be seen as an appetizer for the Wardens.

 

Xolana sighed. “I suppose you have a point there. Fine. Hurrah for the pork,” she said unenthusiastically.

 

“You have an issue with pig?” Conrí question, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 

“I have never been fond of the taste, that is all,” Xolana said evasively. “...and maybe I have a personal vendetta against pigs,” she added when Conrí’s brow smoothed and his eyes were nearing that rather unnerving stare of his. The stare that was usually followed by a head slap. 

 

“Well, we do have to kill them,” Conrí smirked.

 

“Very true,” Marian chuckled. “They don't like it much when you try to cook them live.”

 

Xolana perked up. “I suppose they have a thick hide... you might need some firepower to help hunt a boar...” she cackled evilly.

 

“Ooh, nice evil laugh,” Marian applauded. “All you need is a black cat and the image is complete.”

 

“Huh, funny you should say that,” Xolana chuckled. “There was a mage at the tower who was obsessed with cats... I wonder what he's doing now... if he's ok... Perhaps, if he had just waited a bit longer, he could've come with us, gain his freedom like that...”

 

“This mage wouldn't have gone by the name Anders would he?” Conrí asked.

 

Xolana looked at him in surprise. “Yes, actually. You came across him?”

 

“Knew him before he was taken to the Circle actually,” Conrí explained. “Never learned his real name. His family had moved from the Anderfels to Highever when he was young. Never found out why. But his name was so hard for a child to wrap his mouth around, we ended up just calling him Anders. It stuck.”

 

“Really?” Xolana sighed in frustration. “Oh drats and tarnation, if only Anders had known you were coming to the Tower... You wouldn't have had a chance to meet him when you picked up Tristan because he was in solitary, but after that... I don't know what happened to him. I really hope he is ok...”

 

“I didn't actually recruit Tristan,” Conrí explained. “Duncan did. When we met you was my first experience at Kinloch Hold.”

 

“I see... Well then I suppose it didn't matter either way...”

 

“I don't get cats,” Marian piped up. “Or cat people, really. Dogs are much easier to get along with. Sable is so much better company than some cranky tomcat,” Marian glanced back towards the caravan, wishing she’d thought to bring her large black Mabari, but Sable seemed to be making friends with Koun and Kiba.

 

“I guess it just depends on the kind of person you are, and what sort of values you regard most highly,” Xolana shrugged. “I suppose Anders cared more for the independent spirit of freedom than blind loyalty. I suppose I can understand that.”

 

Conrí and Marian both sent Xolana odd looks. “Don't know much about mabari, do you?” Conrí asked.

 

“I'm just talking about dogs in general,” Xolana raised her hands defensively. “I'll be the first person to admit that I don't know much about Mabari in particular, sheesh.”

 

“Then don't generalize!” Marian poked her cousin in the ribs with a smirk. Xolana scowled and whined as if it had truly hurt. Marian raised an eyebrow. “You circle mages really are soft, aren't you?”

 

“Well I'm sorry that we get coddled physically yet beaten into a pulp mentally at the Tower,” Xolana pouted.

 

“Suck the lip in, Xolana,” Conrí smirked. You're about to get your wish.”

 

“Really?” Xolana was all grins again until an enormous wild boar came pelting out of the trees, squealing in rage. The smile faded to a wide-eyed look of shock “Oh, shit! It’s running straight at the wagon!” she began mumbling incantations and preparing to bring up a wall of flame before the wagon to stop the boar from doing some serious damage. But she needn’t have bothered…

 

Conrí grabbed the boar by the tusks as it passed and dug in his feet. “Uh-uh,” he grunted, his grip never wavering as he restrained the struggling beast. “You aren't getting away from me, porker.” Marian aimed her borrowed bow and let an arrow fly, piercing the flank of the boar, but it didn’t go in very deep because of the boar’s thick hide. Marian swore loudly at not bringing any boar arrows. “Xolana, my hands are kinda full! You mind jamming that blade of yours into this behemoth's neck?”

 

Xolana laughed with glee. “Our commander needs help! Well, if that isn't a first! But, with pleasure!” she yanked her blade free from the scabbard at the small of her back while running. She leapt on the beast, securing herself on its back with a tight grip of her legs and a fist full of its fur in case it started bucking. Once secure, Xolana jammed her dagger right into the jugular, adding a vindictive twist.

 

Conrí only let go when he was sure the beast was dead. “Xolana, first thing you learn about hunting boar is that the one who gets a hold of it never kills it. You let go, you're gonna get gored.”

 

“Well... I know that now, and I'm happy to help you in future if it means I can kill more of these bloody pigs...” Xolana played with the blood on the blade of her dagger with a scary smirk for a few seconds before she remembered herself and wiped off the blood to put the knife away again.

She shook her head. “Urgh, pigs really bring out the worst in me, it seems.”

 

Marian raised an eyebrow. “Were wild pigs known for stalking the halls of the tower?” she asked sardonically. 

 

“No but.....” Xolana sighed. “Oh, fine… I suppose you deserve this story. No doubt you will find some amusement in it. Though we might wish to keep it for camp, later, since we should not waste time out in the open like this and this beast of a boar needs to be dealt with, right?”

 

“Aye, you have a point,” Conrí grabbed the boar by the scruff of the neck, tossed it over his shoulder and carried it back to camp.

 

Xolana followed Conrí together with Marian. “Well, you can't claim he wasn't strong, our commander,” Xolana stared.

 

Marian looked on incredulously. “What did they feed him?” she breathed. That monster had weigh at least 20 stone.

 

“I vote for Stamina Droughts in his breast milk,” Xolana suggested.

 

“That would not surprise me in the least....” 

 

Xolana continued somewhat more secretively, lowering her voice with a girly giggle and smirk. “Just imagine how this would translate to his performance in bed…”

 

Marian stamped her foot childishly. “Why do we have to be running for our lives.....?”

 

“Blame the darkspawn, dear cousin,” Xolana sighed. “But that's why I'm travelling with our dear commander. Well, that and to finally be free of the damn Circle and Chantry. But, well...” she shook her head slightly. “I am sure you will find more than ‘appropriate’ men in Kirkwall!”

 

“And women, maker willing,” Marian grinned.

 

“I assumed that went without saying,” Xolana winked.

 

The three soon found the cart again. Everyone was setting up camp or arranging the cart for easier storage. “Alistair!” Conrí called, making the former templar look up in curiosity. “Get this cleaned up!” with one arm, he tossed the boar at Alistair.

 

Alistair caught the beast, almost buckling and expelling an, “Oof!” After a long moment he wheezed out, “On it, Lieutenant…”

 

As Xolana saw this, her face distorted into an expression of utter desperation and despair. “Commander, are you mad!?” she shrieked. “Pork is bad enough as it is, but you're handing it to him!?!?!?!? Do you wish to poison us all!?”

 

Conrí crossed his arms. “I told him to clean it. As in, bleed it, skin it and dissect it, but not cook it. It's my night to cook anyway.”

 

Xolana fanned herself with relief. “Dear Maker... we're saved.”

 

“My cooking isn't that bad is it?” Alistair asked, his expression mildly hurt.

 

“There is no putting it delicately, Alistair,” Erin sighed. “It is that bad.”

 

“Look maybe if you....” Xolana started, then sighed. “No, actually, never mind. There is no saving your ‘cuisine.’”

 

“Conrí isn't much better....” Alistair sulked.

 

“Bitter?” Tira snickered. Alistair stuck his tongue out childishly at the Dalish archer.

 

Xolana leaned over to whisper to Marian. “He's right. Conrí’s cooking is also not the best, but it's definitely better.”

 

“The man knows his way around pork though,” Serena reasoned. Garik nodded with an eager grin, rubbing his hands together.

 

“...Is that a euphemism?” Xolana asked with a cheeky grin. “I am certain there is one to be had there,”

 

Erin grimaced. “Great. Now the image is in my head and it will never leave...”

 

“I regret nothing,” the blood mage chuckled evilly. Erin flicked Xolana on the ear with a scowl. “Hey, what was that for?” she cried, rubbing her ear indignantly.

 

“You know perfectly well,” Erin glared.

 

“Spoilsports, the lot of you...”

 

“Xolana, rather than standing around bitching,” Conrí barked. “Can you get the spit unloaded?”

 

“Bitching he says! He has clearly never seen bitching,” Xolana grumbled and mumbled but do as she was told. 

 

The sound of cartwheels on the road behind him made Conrí whirl around, bow nocked and drawn. The man atop the horse leading the cart immediately raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa! Easy, Warden. Not here to cause trouble!”

 

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t immediately believe that,” Conrí growled, centering his arrow on the man’s chest.

 

“Warden, if I were apt to cause grief for any of you, why would I approach such a large, armed group with naught but an old Frostback Tracker and a rickety cart.” 

 

Conrí narrowed his eyes but jerked his head, motioning for the man to speak.

 

“You're a hard group to find, Warden!” the man said, beaming as he lowered his hands. “Been looking for you everywhere!”

 

“Well, here we are,” Conrí said guardedly, lowering his bow slightly while keeping it at the ready. “Was there something you wanted?”

 

“I'm Levi… Levi Dryden,” the man said, eager and ingratiating. “Didn't Duncan ever tell you about me? Trader Levi? Levi of the Coins?'“

 

“You knew Duncan?”

 

“Known him for years,” the man assured him. “Promised to do me a favor, but events, alas, have intervened.”

 

“What sort of… favor?” Conrí began to suspect that this was something time-consuming and difficult, for if it was not, why had Duncan not already done it?

 

“Maybe the name 'Dryden' doesn't mean much to you,” the man said, his smile fading briefly. “It doesn't mean much to anyone these days, but we were once a noble family of Ferelden. My ancestor-”

 

“Sophia Dryden!” Conrí recognized the tainted name of one of Ferelden's most notorious traitors. “You're a descendent of Arlessa Sophia, you say?”

 

“Well,” the man shuffled, “as you know, she was forced to become a Grey Warden, and then got involved in the doings that got the order thrown out of Ferelden. Still, we Drydens are tough. When we lost our lands, we became traders and merchants. It's been passed down to us that Sophia wasn't the traitor they branded her. The proof might be up at the old Warden fortress at Soldier's Peak!”

 

“And you wanted Duncan to… do what?” Tira wondered.

 

“Go up to the Peak!” Levi urged her. “See it for yourself! The Wardens get their old fortress back, and I get a chance to prove my family were loyal!”

 

“Why do I think it's not as simple as all that?” Serena remarked.

 

Erin rolled her eyes. “Because it's not,” she said shortly. “I've heard of Soldier's Peak. I think I've even seen the tops of its towers in the distance. It's up north in the Coast Mountains. It's supposed to be haunted...” She gave the merchant a questioning stare.

 

“Well...” he allowed. “...that's probably true. A hundred Wardens held off the whole King's army for a year up there. But,” he rallied his spirits. “It's full of history! Wardens like history, don't they?”

 

Conrí sighed and returned the arrow to its quiver. “You’re lucky you found us when you did. We’re headed that way with a group of people at this very moment. It couldn’t hurt to have a base that Loghain and his followers would be unable to access. And what do you want in exchange for our help, Master Dryden?”

 

“The truth,” said Levi. “As I mentioned, my family has long believed our ancestor was not the traitor Arland painted her as.”

 

Conrí nodded. “You pull your weight and we’ll provide protection. If you have anything to trade, speak with our friend Bodahn Feddic over there,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the dwarven merchant. “He’ll let you know what we need. Other than that, just make yourself useful and try not to get in the way.” Conrí turned to walk back to Bodahn’s cart before freezing and turning back. “Oh, and one more thing, Levi,” the trader looked up from where he had tied his horse. “We have mages with us. Both Circle and apostate. If any templars come our way, you are to keep your mouth shut. Otherwise… well, let’s just say your family will have another member to mourn.” Levi paled but nodded and went about his business.

 

* * *

 

As the sun began to set, Conrí passed out shredded boar on halved loaves of bread. Xolana whistled appreciatively. “Well I’ll be damned, this may be pork and cooked by Conrí, but it looks and smells beyond edible.”

 

“You sound far too surprised, Amell,” Conrí smirked.

 

“Apologies commander but... well, I'm still skeptical. Pork and I don't get along, as I've mentioned,” with that, Xolana decided to take a careful bite, eyes widening in surprise as the taste filled her mouth. “By the Maker... this is actually… dare I say it? ...it’s good!” Xolana scowled slightly when she caught Conrí’s smirk. “Oh wipe that smug look off your face, Commander. You can make that face when you achieve other things...” Xolana glanced over at Serena with a smirk. “And yes I'm still thinking pork euphemisms.”

 

“Erin, if you would,” Conrí requested, smirk still in place. Erin smirked as well and head slapped the mage. “Not in front of the child, Xolana.”

 

Xolana rolled her eyes. “Like the word ‘euphemism’ means anything to him!”

 

“Mama?” Oren asked quizzically. 

 

Oriana sent Xolana a cool, ‘Quit while you're ahead’ look. “You said something about a story, Xolana?”

 

“Well this story isn't exactly for his ears then either,” Xolana admitted. “But I'm sure I can embellish it until we're good. So yes, there was a story. Admittedly, I didn't expect quite such a large audience for it,” she glanced around the fire to note that everyone was listening. “But there we go. So... pork. You were right, Marian; it is not usual for pigs to go storming about the tower. However, as it happened, hunters had recently come by and sold some young piglets for a very good price. They were still alive, having been trapped after the mother was hunted or so I gather, so there was quite a commotion, with all the squealing in the kitchen. By now I am sure that most of you are aware of my....” Xolana glanced at Oriana again and chose her words carefully. “Escapades while being trapped at the tower... those few moments to keep me sane, as it were. But more on that another time. Suffice it to say for now that me and a... friend…” a look at Tristan who clearly knew exactly whom she was talking about. “Took the opportunity of distraction to attempt to... uh... play a game...yes, a game, in a more daring location than usual. I had never been outright caught before, though of course most at the tower were in some form aware of what was going on, or had at least heard rumors. Until this day.”

 

Tristan covered his eyes with a small grin. He remembered this particular… adventure quite well.

 

“One of the damn piglets wriggled free from the kitchen staff,” Xolana continued. “They had been so busy greasing all the others they obviously missed the last one alive, which then proceeded to wriggle out of their slippery fingers and started squealing and rampaging through the halls of the tower. The mess that little monster made was glorious, and usually I would have laughed at it, except... well, the little abomination decided to run straight into the room we were having... uh, I mean playing the game in.” Xolana swallowed with a nervous look at Oriana. “That in itself wouldn't even have been so bad, though awkward… game interrupted, but we could have moved on. However, the little monster was by this point being chased and followed by the entirety of the kitchen staff, a few other service staff, multiple mages, 10 templars and... well, since the piglet had just run straight into his room... First Enchanter Irving himself.”

 

By this point Tristan was gasping for breath. “I've never seen Jowan blush that much! And I was there when he burned off Greagoir’s eyebrows during Brewing.”

 

Xolana rolled her eyes. “As you can see, Tristan still can't control his laughter at the memory,” she sighed. “Well, you can probably imagine the result. We were severely punished and half the circle had no idea what to say - Irving tactfully decided to never speak of it again, though curiously I was able to note that by next week his table had been replaced by a new one....”

 

“Pigs do make an awful mess,” Oren piped up. “Right, Uncle?”

 

Conrí, despite fighting his laughter, was able to sputter out, “They do indeed Oren,” confusing the small child.

 

Xolana chuckled. “You're a bright kid, Oren. You'll make it far in life!”

 

“And I thought Fergus was bad....” Oriana sighed wearily, though a small smile was easily visible on her lips.

 

“So, now you might ask why this means I hate pigs so much?” Xolana concluded. “I mean, you can probably see why I dislike them, but the hate comes in with the epilogue to my tale. Following our punishment, the templars proceeded to watch me intently. When I say intently, I mean to say I was essentially under supervision all hours of the day and night. I don't know about my... playmate... but I imagine it was the same for him. But can you imagine what it's like to be watched constantly!? I didn't manage to get lai-..... uh, I mean, to find another opportunity to play for months after that! MONTHS!”

 

“All because of one little piglet,” Conrí snorted.

 

“Yes! EXACTLY!” Xolana’s desperation and horror clear in her voice. She soon noted, however,how everyone around the camp was giving her looks that said 'oh you pervy little shit, it can't have been that bad' and turned imploringly to Zevran. “Surely YOU at least understand my plight?”

 

“I understand completely, my dear,” Zevran agreed with a nod. “One has urges no?”

 

“Yes, precisely so. And resisting those is unnatural! We are creatures of instinct; continuously suppressing said urges and instincts leads to bad... bad things.” She continued with her rambling and self assured nodding until someone spoke up.

 

“Xolana,” Tira interrupted.

 

Xolana was pulled out of her reverie and looked at Tira “....yes?”

 

“You're babbling. Worse than Merrill ever did.”

 

“Sorry...” Xolana grimaced. “Remembering that time makes me... agitated.”

 

“Don't worry about it. It must have been.... frustrating,” Tira agreed.

 

“You... could say that,” Xolana cleared her throat. “But anyway, that's it. That's my story. No need to keep staring at me. Oh, Alistair, stop blushing like a schoolboy, stop staring at me like that or I'll do something about it!” Alistair’s eyes widened, making the mage chuckle. “Oh you are just too adorable.”

 

“Uh..... thanks?” Alistair stammered.

 

“I think I broke him. Wynne, you have any salves for that?”

 

“No, unfortunately, I do not,” Wynne chuckled.

 

“Well damn,” Xolana laughed. “Sorry, Commander, I think I just destroyed your Templar. I hope you forgive me if I point out the irony.”

 

“Forgiven,” Conrí smirked. “Alistair, do close your mouth. You'll catch flies that way.”

 

“I really wish the Templars at the tower had been this easy to decommission,” Xolana lamented. “Would have made my life much, much easier... and might have made them more amiable as well.”

 

“Right,” Conrí snorted. “And I might have become a brother of the Chantry.”

 

“Do I detect a hint of sarcasm there, my dear lord commander?” Xolana asked.

 

“I should hope so because I’m laying it on fairly thick,” Conrí rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh, good. Humor suits you, even if it's the unseemly sort,” Xolana smiled.

 

“And here I thought I was the funny one of the group,” Conrí snarked.

 

“Erin, did you put something in your brother's drink tonight?” Xolana snickered. “He seems in uncharacteristically good spirits.”

 

“Well, that tends to happen when abominations are attacking us, and he isn't being constantly pricked at by the taint,” Erin told her while sharpening her blades.

 

“Well isn't that a lovely reminder of what being a Warden means,” Xolana sighed.

 

“Tell me about it...” Tristan muttered, tossed what was left of his bread to Kiba.

 

“Speaking of which...” Xolana swallowed hard as she considered what she would hear if she was truly asking this. “If we're on the subject anyway, when am I to take my Joining, Conrí...?” she asked. “Not that I'm too eager to jump straight into the clutches of death with my new-found freedom, but might as well get it over with.”

 

Conrí sighed and took out his pipe. After packing it with tobacco and lighting it, he takes a pull. “It may be a while, Xolana. I wasn't lying when I told Aveline we didn't know how to perform the Joining. I'm hoping to learn more at Soldier's Peak.”

 

“And in the meantime I'll be the joke of the Wardens,” Xolana grunted irritably. “Honestly, if I didn't need the ‘Warden Recruit’ title to keep me alive and safe from the Templars, I would much prefer to just be considered a ‘chance companion.’” She grumbled slightly, but everyone could see on she was not really all that bothered for now.

 

“Hm. I imagine you have questions about the Wardens,” Conrí took another drag, remembering his numerous interrogations of Duncan and the other Senior Wardens.

 

“What's to know?” Xolana shrugged. “Kill darkspawn or die trying. And somewhere amongst all that there is the freedom of the road that I always wanted. I'm good with that.”

 

“Well, there are things you have to know. But, they can wait, I suppose,” Conrí acknowledged.

 

“Until the time comes where I truly become a Warden, there is no point in telling me,” Xolana reasoned. “I might die before we ever get to that point, but even if I don't, I would prefer not to waste my time thinking and fretting. Cross that bridge when we get there?”

 

Conrí smirked and took another pull. “You're wiser than you let on,” he said, blowing out a stream of multi-colored smoke.

 

Xolana preened slightly at those words but quickly turned to look at him with a curious glance. “I am sorry,” she laughed amiably. “I must not have heard you correctly. Did someone truly just call Xolana Amell ‘wise’? The world truly is coming to an end, isn't it?”

 

“Not while I have something to say about it,” Conrí rumbled.

 

Xolana smirked. “Aye, Commander. I must have simply misheard, then!”

 

“I think you heard just fine,” Conrí tapped his pipe out and got up. “Alright. Bed time. I'll take first watch tonight. The rest of you get some rest.”

 

Xolana stretched languorously before saying good night to her cousins and proceeded to her tent for the night. The rest of the Wardens and their traveling companions did the same, safe in the knowledge someone would be awake in case of an attack.

 

 


	20. Parting of Ways and Soldier's Peak

 

The caravan trudged through the hilly northern region of Fereldan for several days after Levi Dryden joined them. Tempers had flared when Carver had confronted Sten about his actions in Lothering. What seemed to make the young warrior angrier was the fact that the Qunari neither defended nor excused his crime, merely acknowledged his failing and made to leave the conversation. When Carver persisted, Sten responded with a harsh, “Parshaara, this argument does nothing. If you wish to bleat like a new born calf, do so at your kin,” and walked away, leaving Carver fuming, before he rounded on Conrí, who had been watching the argument with some amusement.

 

“Why in the Maker’s name did you let that creature out of his cage?!” Carver demanded.

 

Conrí rolled his eyes. “I don’t owe you an explanation, boy,” he snorted.

 

Carver growled and stomped up to the Warden, stopping mere inches from the redhead. Conrí had near a head’s height on Carver, but to the young Hawke’s credit, he didn’t flinch. “Answer me! He butchered an entire family! And you let him loose!”

 

Conrí grunted to himself as he thought back to his conversation with Sten a number of days earlier.

As Conrí returned to the main camp, he found Sten nose to nose with Koun. Koun growled, low and menacing. To Conrí surprise, Sten growled right back. In response, Koun’s growl grew louder and even more fearsome. Sten, in return let out a loud, terrifying roar, startling many in the camp, including Oren, who watched with eyes the size of silvers. Conrí moved to break this up before there was bloodshed, but something held him back. The warrior in his soul told him to watch and nothing more, bringing to mind his own encounter with Tsume at Ostagar. Koun lunged forward, barking fiercely.

 

Sten smiled, not flinching or backing down. “You are a true warrior and worthy of respect,” he said fondly. Koun barked happily, sitting on his haunches as Sten rubbed his head. Sten looked up as Conrí approached with Koun’s share of dinner. “Tell me, Warden, how did this respectable warrior come to be at your side?”

 

Conrí chuckled. “How much do you know of Mabari, Sten?”

 

“Not as much as I would like.”

 

“Well, the breed was originated in Tevinter. An old legend says they defected during the war with the barbarian tribes. As you’ve seen, they are very intelligent, loyal and eager to please. I’ve always thought he understood every word spoken near him, so I’d advise you not insult him. Though… I doubt I’d have to worry about that from you,” Conrí added with a small grin. “As I said, he’s extremely intelligent, able to understand and carry out complex commands. Of course that means he’s easily bored, as you’ve no doubt seen him confounding Alistair frequently.”

 

“Not a difficult thing to do,” Sten said with the barest indications of a smirk.

 

Conrí chuckled. “No kidding. Mabari obey one master in their life due to something we call imprinting. Basically, a Mabari war hound chooses one person to attach himself to for his life. Koun here imprinted on me when I was about seventeen and he was still a pup. Many other nations see our attachment to our Mabari as a sign we have no culture or intelligence. They don’t understand that a Mabari imprinting on you is the ultimate sign of character. So the fact that Koun has accepted you says a great deal about you.”

 

“Thank you Warden, my curiosity is sated, for the moment,” Sten cocked his head slightly, studying the crouching Warden, affectionately scratching Koun’s ears. “You are not quite as… callow as I thought. That is… unexpected.”

 

Conrí blinked in surprise as he rose to attend the fire. “Callow? You thought I was callow?”

 

“You sound surprised. You must have heard this before. You’ll get over it. Eventually.”

 

“Why did I let you out of that cage again?” Conrí asked with a smirk.

 

“I have wondered that, myself,” Sten told him. “It is one of the many things I find puzzling about your behavior.”

 

“Well, I find plenty of things puzzling about you as well,” Conrí shot back.

 

“What is there to be puzzled by? I’m a simple creature. I like swords, I obey orders. There’s nothing else to know about me.”

 

“I don’t think you’re that simple.”

 

Sten smiled slightly. “As I said, you’re not as callow as I once thought. In any case, we should go now.”

Conrí shook his head. “I let him out because one, he’s useful and the Wardens need any ally they can get at this point. Two, leaving anyone to the darkspawn or to starve to death regardless of what they’ve done is disgusting. And three,” he leaned in slightly, his lupine blue eyes meeting Carver’s clear sapphire. “At least he doesn’t whine liked a kicked Orlesian lapdog.” With nothing left to be said, Conrí straightened up and walked past Carver.

 

Carver grit his teeth, glaring after the warrior as his hand snaked to the hilt of his sword.

 

“Wouldn’t advise that, nugget,” Serena remarked as she examined the bracer she was polishing. “Cousland would have you flat on your arse within a few seconds, I’d wager.”

 

“You don’t think I can take him?” Carver demanded.

 

“You move like the blade on you back is a sharp hunk of metal to swing at people,” Serena told him. “The Commander moves like his blade is a part of his body. You want to be taken seriously? Stop whining and do something about it.”

 

“What would you know about it?” Carver snapped.

 

“You’re talking to a middle child, nugget. And only daughter in a society where men are even more dominant than in human society. I’ve worked for the respect I have. Demanding respect or recognition is just gonna get people to write you off as a complainer who does nothing but whine at his betters. You want the respect the Commander has from… most of us? Do something besides bitch.”

 

“You seem to respect your superior greatly,” Aveline approached the pair.

 

“He saved my life,” Serena said simply, dipping her rag back in the tin of polish at her side. “Well, more accurate is finding him saved my life.”

 

“And why did he need to do that?” Aveline asked.

 

“None of your concern,” Serena told the red-haired wall. “All you need know is without him, Brosca and a few of our now fallen comrades, odds are I’d be dead or worse in the Deep Roads.” She set aside the rag, closed the tin and put it back in her bag before slipping the bracer back on her forearm. “I am truly sorry for what happened to your husband, but I’d lose the glares. You’re beginning to look like an ingrate.”

 

Aveline’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

 

Serena frowned. “What, was I speaking Rivaini? We happened along by chance, Aveline. Had the Commander not stashed his sister-in-law and her nug-runner in Lothering, we may not have headed this way. If Xolana hadn’t heard about her family getting cut off, we might not have gone the way we did to get out of Lothering. Be grateful our commander has enough of a heart to save a comrades family. Otherwise, you’d be darkspawn chow by now. Lose the glare.” Serena strode past the human, calling out to her fellow dwarf and asking if supper was almost finished.

 

Aveline crossed her arms, scowling as she realized a pearl of truth in the dwarf’s tirade. It was not the Warden’s fault her husband had been tainted. And it didn’t surprise her that a group who hadn’t been in the order for more than 9 months at most wouldn’t know every secret. Aveline sighed and resolved to be a little more fair to the young men and women fighting the Blight. They were almost completely on their own after all.

 

Carver, however, didn’t care. The sooner they were on the bloody ship, the sooner they were away from people even more arrogant than his sister. And if that red-haired bastard was right, they’d be on the sea the next day.

The next afternoon, the docks at Breaker’s Cove finally came into sight. As Conrí explained, it was mostly used by traders and small time fishermen, so boats didn’t remain docked long. However, a captain Conrí had apprenticed under in his teens kept his boat here when not out fishing. Conrí believed he could convince the rather cantankerous old man to take the group to Kirkwall, but warned them not to expect a warm welcome. The old fisherman wasn’t one to suffer fools and was extremely paranoid.

 

Once they’d gotten the wagons situated, Conrí moved down to the dock, and began speaking with a white haired man with skin darkened by many years under the baking sun. The man seemed unhappy as they approached. “Yer askin’ a great deal, cub,” he wheezed.

 

“I know, Ronan,” Conrí sighed.

 

The old man, Ronan, grimaced as he took a drag off his pipe. “I ain’t gonna have Denerim frigates on my arse like a bad rash for haulin’ ‘em, am I?”

 

“As far as I know, they’ve done nothing to warrant such attention. It might be different if we were on board, but them…”

 

Ronan grimaced again. “Aye, alrigh’. But this be the last favor I owe ya and yer pop, Maker rest ‘im,” he turned to the Hawkes. “It’ll take some time to get the old girl ready to sail so ya may as well make yerselves comfortable ‘round here. Be ready by sun-up tomorrow. The two lads with ya will help my boys out with workin’ the ship. Ya do what I say when I say it and with no complainin’. Told the cub here the same thing when he first set foot here. If I didn’t take shit from the son of a teyrn, I sure ain’t takin’ it from a bunch of farmboys and girls. And if any o’ ya cause trouble on my ship, I’ll not hesitate to keelhaul ya. Am I clear?” The Hawkes nodded and agreed. Even Carver, though he did have a rather sour look on his face. “Good. Stay outta trouble, or I may just change my mind.” He headed back to his shack, barking orders to several sailors as he did.

 

Marian looked to Conrí with a raised brow. “You worked for him?”

 

Conrí nodded with a small smile. “Aye, for about a year. The highest praise I’ve ever gotten from the man is something along the lines of, ‘I could do it better, but it’ll do I suppose.’”

 

Bethany sighed. “What have we gotten ourselves into…”

“I’m gonna miss you, Xolana,” Marian sighed as she and her family walked towards the dock early the next morning.

 

“And I will miss you, cousin...” said Xolana quietly. “It was good to finally meet you all... to finally know what it is like to have a family, I suppose. Promise me you will stay safe in Kirkwall...”

 

“I hope we can,” Marian shook her head. “Kirkwall is supposed to be a rough place.”

 

Xolana bit her lip. “Just... don’t let anyone know you’re a mage, ok? And look after yourselves.”

 

Marian smiled slightly. “We will. Hopefully, Uncle Gamlen won’t mind us just dropping in.”

 

“From what I’ve seen from your... our family so far...” Xolana corrected herself. “I can’t imagine it would be a problem.” She gave her apostate cousin a hopeful, broad smile.

 

Marian returned the smile in a more subdued manner. “Thanks, cousin,” she said, hugging Xolana.

 

Xolana held Marian tight, hesitant to let go but eventually doing so anyway. “Safe crossing, cousin,” she whispered.

 

“You too,” Marian muttered.

 

Bethany hugged Xolana without hesitation. “Be careful, Xolana,” she said, squeezing her cousin.

 

“You too, Bethany,” Xolana turned to Carver when Bethany let go. “And you also, Carver. I wish we had had more opportunity to talk.”

 

Carver looked a bit awkward, seeing that she obviously wanted to hug him too, but not knowing how to react to that. In the end, however, he pulled her into a quick hug.

 

“Thank you, Carver,” she turned to Leandra. “So... this is good bye, Aunt Leandra. Thank you again for... talking to me. Sharing about my parents and... you know.”

 

“It was no trouble, Xolana,” Leandra smiled, hugging her niece. “I was so happy to see you again.”

 

“Me too... me too,” Xolana was sad to know this may well be goodbye for good. “Ah, but now hurry, your ship is preparing to leave already!”

 

“Forget about me, cousin?” Garret smiled as he slipped around his brother

 

“No, of course not Garret,” Xolana quickly caught him in a tight hug as well before releasing him. “Just don’t miss your ship!”

 

The Hawkes quickly boarded, bringing the few things they’d managed to salvage from their home. Xolana stood on the dock as the ship made final preparations. “Not easy is it?” Xolana turned as Conrí came to stand next to her. “Watching your family, not knowing if you’ll ever see them again.”

 

“I never even really knew what it was like having a family in the first place,” Xolana sighed. “I only ever had my friends, and I guess the Circle. Nothing really changes now... except that I have new memories to be grateful for. And I am glad that they are travelling somewhere safer, somewhere safe from this blight.”

 

Conrí nodded. “You do have a family. And I don’t just mean blood.”

 

“Please commander, don’t go soft on me now,” Xolana sent the tall warrior a grateful smile regardless.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Conrí rumbled.

 

Xolana waved goodbye to the Hawkes but then quickly turned away with a worryingly cheerful smile. “Well, onwards, then. No time to dally here, right? Where are we off to next? Blight and Archdemons to vanquish and all that!” Xolana was about to run back to the others when she noticed Conrí hadn’t moved.

 

“It’s alright to miss them, you know,” he said quietly, watching the ship as it moved towards the horizon.

 

Xolana ducked her head slightly. “...I know. But I don’t want to. If I started missing them now, it would mean something has changed. it would mean I have someone to miss. But everyone and everything I need is here, right?” she waved her hand to indicate all the wardens and their rather eclectic group of companions.

 

“Cutting ties is... the easiest way to settle in as a warden... but I didn’t,” Conrí sighed.

 

“I thought I told you, there are no ties to cut,” Xolana said stubbornly. “I can only repeat that I’m still grateful for the memories, but yet... nothing has truthfully changed.”

 

Conrí grumbled to himself, “And people say I’m stubborn,” but let the argument go. “Come on. We’re a few hours from the entrance to Soldier’s Peak. Or at least, Levi says we are.”

 

“Then let’s go,” Xolana gave one final look towards the departing ship with a wistful smile before following her commander.

“It’s not far,” Conrí told his people, “but it will be mostly uphill.”

 

Levi Dryden had a map of sorts, but was not perfectly skilled at reading it. Even so, the mouth of a tunnel was found and torches lit. They dismounted and led the horses. It was pleasant to be out of the sharp wind, but confusing in the smoky darkness. At length, Conrí tactfully relieved the man of his map, oriented himself and kept his people moving until they saw a glimmer of light ahead.

 

They emerged into the splendor of the mountains and to a steep grade which forced them to lend a hand pushing the wagon. They turned a corner, sweating and cursing, and then there were gasps.

 

“Maker!” cried Levi. “Look at the size of that fortress!”

 

“Not bad,” Serena remarked to Garik. “There’s some good stonework there. Must have hired dwarves.”

 

Conrí was impressed, though didn’t seem it. “Some broken shutters here and there, but it looks like the outbuildings are still sound.”

 

“This place is amazing!” breathed Blair. “I’ve never seen such a fortress.”

 

“It’s old, too,” Xolana told them, “Really old. It was built by Commander Asturian in the Glory Age, three hundred years before King Calenhad united Ferelden. All the northern teyrns contributed to it, because Asturian arrived just after the end of the Second Blight, and it was fresh in their minds.” She noticed several of her fellows staring. “What? I like to read.”

 

Levi Dryden, from his vantage on the wagon seat, said, “A hundred Wardens held off the whole army for over a year! In the end they were starving. Otherwise, I reckon they could have sat here forever, thumbing their nose at the King!”

 

“The terrain is too vertical for siege engines to be effective,” Conrí muttered to himself. “This is an amazingly defensible position. A hundred men held it for a year? I believe it now.”

 

“It might not be so nice on the inside,” Serena reasoned. “There was a battle here, after all. It is unlikely that the victors tidied up afterward.”

 

Tristan chuckled at that, but Morrigan said softly. “Be cautious. Too much blood has soaked into the earth. The Veil is thin here.”

 

As if in response to her words, misty figures coalesced before them: the past relived for all of them to see. Garik reached out hesitantly to touch one of the figures, but his hand went through the unheeding phantom.

 

“Don’t, Garik!” Leliana whispered. “Watch!”

 

A big man in plate armor shouted at his men to fall back. The royal army had made an assault, and had failed. The soldiers looked...frightened.

 

“—and so we starve them out, then!” the nobleman snarled.

 

Abruptly the vision blinked out.

 

“Did everyone see that?” asked Garik, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Everyone saw it,” Conrí affirmed. “Astonishing. Is there some way to exorcise such spirits?” he looked to the mages with him. “They don’t seem dangerous but they would prove distracting.”

 

“Not as distracting as that,” Zevran remarked.

 

From the earth of the courtyard, skeletal figures were rising, bones assembling in swift order. Hanging from the fleshless shoulders were ragged Grey Warden tunics. With an eldritch howl, the skeletons lifted their blades, and charged.

 

Conrí had seen the living dead before in the Circle Tower. Serena had fought ferocious phantoms in Orzammar during her missions under Trian, back when he was a fair handed leader. But, to them all, these were enemies, in arms against them, and they fought back against the creatures, freezing them, hacking them apart, smashing them down, ending them. Not all the skeletons wore the insignia of the Grey Wardens. Others wore the rampant mabaris of the crown of Ferelden. Though they had fought each long ago, the dead were united in their hatred of the living. On the steps, leading to the castle door, a skeleton used an antique crossbow with formidable skill. Serena threw up her shield before her and slammed the thing back. Conrí’s sword swung down and beheaded it. Whatever evil enchantments animated the creatures, beheading them seemed to be effective.

 

“More of them!” Morrigan shouted, pointing behind them to a slope near one of the towers. One of the dead was casting spells. Koun bayed at the attackers, and barreled toward them, knocking them flying. There were archers among them, too.

 

Once these unquiet spirits were put to rest, the Wardens ranged over the big courtyard, poking into outbuildings, peering into lofts. They tried the door to the nearest tower: a tall, freestanding structure connected at its top to the castle by a stone bridge. The door did not budge.

 

“Probably barred inside. Doesn’t look like the king’s men got in here,” Garik said.

 

Tristan took another look at the tower. “There might be a magical barrier, too,” he said thoughtfully. “Hidden behind the door. That’s subtle.”

 

Erin looked uneasily at the castle’s arrow slits. “I would half expect ghostly archers to shoot down upon us.”

 

“Fine with me that they’re not,” grunted Blair.

 

Everyone agreed with that.

 

“Clear here!” called Alistair from a doorway. “This was the smithy. Its dusty, but the tools are still sound. Not even very rusty!”

 

“Something or someone has cast some serious preservation magic over the place,” Xolana told Conrí. “It’s the only thing that explains the condition of the castle and courtyard.”

 

“If the spells wore off,” Conrí wondered. “Would everything collapse into decay?”

 

Wynne shook her head. “Magic doesn’t work that way. If the spells wore off, the usual processes would take over, sort as if the battle happened that day.” She thought a little more. “Except the spells weren’t cast the day after the battle. Maybe months or years later, which would explain the skeletons.”

 

“I concur,” Morrigan agreed. “Powerful magic has been done here. The preservation spells themselves are not malevolent. Neutral magic, if you will.”

 

Tira wandered about, curious and disapproving. “Do not humans dispose of their dead? Why were all these bodies left to rot under the sun and rain?”

 

“It’s odd,” Conrí agreed. “We were taught that King Arland’s forces triumphed, and the Wardens were exiled. Clearly not the full story. The Wardens seemed to have been killed, rather than exiled, and the king’s forces did not remain here long enough to burn even their own dead.”

 

“I found the spring house!” Garik called, coming around a corner of the castle. “There’s a spout that faces the stables. I think another one is on the other side of the wall inside the cellar of the castle. They had good water.”

 

That was practically an invitation. The water bubbling out of the bronze griffon head was cold, clear, and fresh. They took turns drinking and refilling their canteens.

 

“Garik, get water in the trough before we enter the castle,” Conrí ordered. “Levi!” she shouted. “Unhitch the horses and bring them around over here!”

The trader had hidden in the wagon during the fight. Now he peeked out from the sheltering canvas, trembling. “Is it safe?” he asked.

 

“For now. Out here,” answered Conrí. “Who knows what we’ll find inside? Oriana, stay in the cart with Bodahn, Sandal and Iona. Keep Oren’s head down. I don’t know if there are more wandering around.” Oriana nodded and pushed a curious Oren back into the cart.”

 

The man edged over to him, nervous and fearful. Conrí wondered why he was here. Why not give them the map and wait for them at Breaker’s Cove? He had said something about wanting to redeem his family’s honor. He wanted to find historical evidence that Sophia Dryden was no traitor, but the innocent victim of the tyrannical King Arland. Even if King Arland had been a tyrant, that in itself was certainly no evidence that Sophia had not rebelled against him.

 

After their rest, they opened the heavy double doors. The doors were unbarred, and opened easily, without even squeaking. The Wardens stepped into a high-ceilinged, chilly entrance hall. Faded banners hung from the ceiling, a little shabby and threadbare, but still colorful. Dusty benches lined the plastered walls.

 

And abruptly before them was another vision. They gathered, pushing for the best view, as misty figures in Grey Warden gear met in council: a Dalish elf, a dwarf, humans; axmen, hammer men and swordsmen; archers and mages.

 

One mage, whom the others called Avernus, was reporting low morale to a slender woman in rather beautiful plate armor, whom he called Sophia. Levi, on the fringes of the group, leaned over with a quick intake of breath. Yes, Sophia Dryden: last Warden Commander in Ferelden before the return of the order twenty years ago. The edges of the woman were blurred, but her voice was clear and powerful.

 

“Men, I won’t lie to you. The situation is grim: our forces outnumbered, our bellies empty, and our hearts are sagging. But we are Wardens! Darkspawn flee when they hear our horns. Archdemons die when they taste our blades. So are we to bend knee to a mere human despot? No! I, for one, will never give up! I, for one will never surrender, just to dance on Arland’s gallows...”

 

The vision faded to nothing.

 

“That was quite the speech,” Garik said cheerfully. “Sounds a bit like you, Boss Man, though I don’t care for the part about the gallows. Don’t get us hanged, all right?”

 

“Or lead us in some heroic last stand in which everybody dies,” Zevran added. “It sounds good in a song, but it must be very uncomfortable to experience.”

 

“For me, too,” Conrí agreed, with a wry smile. He jerked his chin at the arched portal before them.

 

Garik and Blair moved to either side and gave the door a nudge. It, too, swung open easily.

 

“Demon!” shouted Xolana.

 

The big, dark common room was occupied by three demons, in fact. One was an Arcane Horror; powerful in magical offense, but comparatively fragile as Serena demonstrated with a bash of her shield and swipe of her axe. The Wardens and their allies moved carefully about the chamber, looking for clues and treasure. There was a door on either side, and another opening directly opposite the entry way, but that was unusable due to the remains of hastily-constructed barricades.

 

Left or right? Conrí considered the exterior he had seen, and thought that the door to the left would not be as complicated as the other.

 

It was complicated enough. More of the walking dead attacked, one of them very powerful and aggressive. Once again, the mages’ freezing and immobilization spells were essential. Some of the skeletons shattered to bits, leaving the leader to be mobbed and smashed.

 

“A barracks? “ Erin wondered, looking about. “A training room? “

 

“Both,” decided Serena. “Which would not be conducive to sound sleep.”

 

“And no privacy at all,” Blair added.

 

It was a very large, high room on two levels. At entry level, there were archery targets and weapons stands, along with tin bathtubs and a table with the remains of its last card game. Up a short staircase was a gallery along the length of the room, filled with bunk beds, trunks, and cracked chamber pots. There had been a battle here long ago, too.

 

“The bunks aren’t in bad shape!” Alistair said cheerfully, sitting on a lower one and bouncing a little.

 

“If you don’t mind sleeping on dead guys’ mattresses,” snarked Garik.

 

“Not the best place for bunks,” Conrí agreed, thinking to himself. “I’d have to see the rest of the castle, but perhaps this should be a training room only, with the level above for seating and observation.”

 

“You sound,” Morrigan said, “like you are ready to move in and take up housekeeping.”

 

Conrí nodded. “If the demons can be destroyed and the Veil repaired, this place could be extremely useful. If the rest of it is in this condition, it wouldn’t cost a fortune to make it habitable.”

 

They moved back into the big common room. Xolana used a mild concussive spell to shake ancient soot and leaves from the chimney. Part of the old barricades were used to lay a fire. In a short time, a warm flame was taking the worst of the chill off the air in the room.

 

Garik found a scrap of parchment, which was, interestingly enough, a note from someone called Wulffe, begging Sophia Dryden for help against King Arland. “Hey, Boss. Might wanna see this.” Conrí took it with a curious frown, his eyes sliding over the words.

 

**_ Sophia, _ **

 

**_ Arl Ruahn and his entire family have been slaughtered, even the children. The Ruahn line is no more and the arling belongs to the crown, for now. Arland believed Ruahn was plotting against him. Ruahn criticized the king’s spending on Wintersend-that is all. It was an idle word, spoken out of turn. The king goes too far. His brain is filled with madness and he clings to the crown like a drowning man clutches at a straw. _ **

**_ Sophia, I beg you, help us. If nothing is done, more will suffer. _ **

 

**_ Your humble servant, _ **

 

**_ -Wulffe _ **

 

“Told you!” Levi said smugly, having read the note over… or rather, around, Conrí’s shoulder. “Old King Arland was a terrible tyrant, he was.”

 

Everyone had a sip of water and a bit of food, and then it was time to move on.

 

“Door,” Conrí ordered. Garik picked the lock and quickly scanned the room for threats.

 

The door led to a long hall running parallel to the common room, and several doors led off from it. Blessedly, there were no demons or walking dead awaiting them.

 

The first door led to the kitchen: a large, big one, too, and well lit by high windows. A few human bones were scattered around the room, but nothing manifested from them.

 

“We should do something about these bones,” Erin muttered.

 

Conrí nodded. It was only proper. “If we are successful in clearing out the demons, we’ll collect all the remains, take them outside and burn them in a single place. We’ll find a way to mark it too, and perhaps eventually put up a memorial stone.”

 

Tristan helped Morrigan clear this chimney as well, while Xolana poked into piles of sacks, crocks, and crates. Everything was empty. The Wardens had been living on air, at the end.

 

The door on the same wall at the far end of the hall led down some steps to a lower level. Once again, there were no demons here. No human remains, either.

 

“I don’t think the king’s men ever got this far,” Xolana said slowly. “I think they killed all the Wardens, or thought they had, and then demons might have driven them off.”

 

“I think you’re right,” Garik agreed. “There’s a lot of stuff here. Dusty and dirty, but usable.”

 

“It’s interesting,” Xolana mused. “I think that anything that looks particularly shabby or dilapidated already was like that. Maybe the Wardens hadn’t been keeping up the place very well.”

 

“Possibly,” Conrí considered. “Very possible, if the order was on the outs with the King. Sophia had been forced to become a Warden in order to remove her as Arland’s rival. Then Wardens went and elected her Commander. That must have stuck in the King’s craw. Maybe the clash was inevitable, and maybe the Ferelden Wardens had been feeling his wrath in little ways before the outbreak of overt war.”

 

They moved, alert and cautious, from room to room. Two big rooms held six bunk beds. Around a corner and down some rather rickety stairs, they found the storage cellars, a clothing workshop, a still room, a wine cellar filled with shattered bottles and long-drained barrels, and finally the spring house, which, as Garik had guessed, did indeed have a spigot on the inside of the castle. It worked, too, and the water ran clear after a minute or so. Down yet more stairs were dungeons, amounting to a pair of stocks, a whipping post, and three cells. Unsurprising, of course, but completely empty.

 

Conrí walked back upstairs, collecting his thoughts. There was so much more than he had expected or dared hope for. There was potential here: a lot of potential. He glanced at an open cupboard of linens in puzzlement.

 

“Why haven’t the rats got into everything?”

 

“No rats,” Tristan declared. “No mice. No vermin of any kind. Part of the spells that were laid down. Now that we’ve opened up the place again, we might think about getting a cat,” he chuckled as he thought of Anders and the Circle’s old mouser.

 

“It’s a fine place,” Garik said to Blair. “Better than anything Dust Town or I imagine the Alienage ever had.” Blair nodded.

 

“Aye,” Conrí agreed, “but we’d best get back to the demon-infested main keep.”

 

“Joy,” sighed Zevran.

 

They stepped back into the hall, and across it was the last door: a door badly damaged by heavy blows. This was opened cautiously, and Conrí instantly got a very bad feeling. It was the ravaged ruin of the library, and it had seen plenty of fighting, judging from the scorch marks and jumbles of bones. Tables and chairs were overturned, and the pillars were scarred by swords and axes. Books were scattered everything. Nearly incinerated, a large tome lay open on the floor. Xolana reach out a tentative hand, and instantly triggered yet another vision.

 

A greying man in mage’s robes was writing furiously into a large codex. Muffled shouts and screams filled the air, and an ominous, regular, booming noise shook the stones. The man’s assistant, a young female mage, frantic with terror, begged him to hurry.

 

“The door won’t hold, Archivist!”

 

“Almost done. The truth must be told.”

 

“What does it matter now?” the girl moaned. “We’re dead.”

 

The man kept on writing, his face strained and intent. “Our grand rebellion! So close! And to die here a stillbirth...”

 

“We never should have done it!” the girl cried. “Wardens aren’t supposed to oppose kings and princes!”

 

“Should we stand idly by and—”

 

With the crash of a forced door, the vision blinked out, and in its place rose up Rage Demons, bitterly aggrieved at their fate. The Wardens fell back. Scorching fire licked at their armor and crisped their hair. The mages shouting out freezing spells, but yet more of the demons emerged, rushing at them vengefully.

 

Everyone was burned, some of them rather badly. The demons were put down, and Xolana and Wynne performed healing spells. There was general interest in the book collection: some of it looked very old and valuable, but they had not time to peruse them at length. Conrí had Zevran, Blair, Sten, Shale and Wynne start righting everything then gathering the remains of the keeps former inhabitants. That, and he wasn’t sure the upper floors would handle Shale’s considerable mass. He almost regretted not leaving the golem outside, but Shale had proven her worth.

 

They first found a little cove below the main part of the second floor. A small fireplace sat beneath a very dark and dirty portrait, which in archaic letters was labeled as that of Commander Asturian.

 

A few steps took them up to the second floor proper, which at first glance appeared to be entirely wasted space. A large dining table was arranged in a corner, but the big open area seemed otherwise empty. There were plenty of high windows in the walls, but most of them were tightly shuttered. The Wardens moved through the dim interior.

 

“Stop.” Morrigan whispered. “Against the wall. A spirit mirror. And there on the floor… That part of the room was used for magical rituals.”

 

“Summoning circles,” Xolana squeaked. “It looks like some lunatic was summoning dem—”

 

They were in the middle of yet another vision, and this was the most violent and frightening of them all. Levi shrieked, and flung himself away. King’s men and Wardens cut and slashed at each other, and another element had been introduced.

 

“Make them pay for every inch, men!” shouted Sophia, her blade flashing. “Avernus! We need you!”

 

The mage’s arms were lifted, as he recited an incantation in Arcanum. Demons boiled out of the summoning circles, falling upon the king’s men, ripping and tearing at the screaming, horrified soldiers.

 

“More, Avernus!” Sophia cried, wild with battle. “More! Whatever it takes! Press them! Press them now!”

 

A soldier screamed in a demon’s grip. Not sated, the demon lashed out, slashing open a Grey Warden’s belly. More demons fell on any warriors within reach, caring nothing for their allegiances, but only that they were living prey.

 

“No!” shouted Avernus. “I command you! Attack the King’s men only!”

 

A demon drifted toward him, and a deep, gurgling voice issued forth.

 

“So much death...so much suffering...and...oh, yes...blood! The Veil is torn. Your soul is mine, Avernus!”

 

“Acolytes,” cried Avernus. “Retreat!”

 

The mages scrambled up the stairs. Some were caught by demonic talons, and dragged down. In the midst of the slaughter, Sophia Dryden still stood, fighting to the last, her face a mask of pride and despair.

 

“Avernus!” she shouted. “Avernus!”

 

They hardly knew where the vision ended and the demons began. A Hunger Demon surged toward them, feeding off the spirits of the walking dead. Its single eye glowed red as flame until Tira put an arrow in it. Koun worried at an ankle, while the rest of them hacked at it. It threw out sudden bursts of raw power, knocking them aside, but with every surge it grew weaker, and eventually lay on the stones, the dead flesh it inhabited decaying rapidly.

 

“Raising demons!” Levi said, discontented. “I thought my family was better than that.”

 

“It was life and death,” Xolana consoled him.

 

“It was interesting, though,” Tristan remarked. “That mage Avernus called the junior mages ‘acolytes.’ That’s the old Tevinter term for apprentice mages. Maybe the Grey Wardens have some other Tevinter customs.”

 

“Probably,” Xolana agreed. “Whether we wish to admit it or not, it’s perfectly obvious that the Grey Wardens were a Tevinter creation. Just as the magisters who caused mankind to be cursed by darkspawn were Tevinter, so were those who developed the darkspawn’s greatest enemies.”

 

“The Chantry—” argued Leliana.

 

“Nope,” Xolana cut her off, rather cheerfully. “The Chantry gets no credit at all for the Grey Wardens. The Grey Wardens predate the Chantry by hundreds of years. They predate the formation of the Orlesian Empire. The Warden’s have been around before anybody.”

 

“Not quite,” Tira disagreed, her voice suspiciously gentle. “The elven realm of Arlathan, destroyed by those very magisters, predates you all, and by a very great deal.”

 

Xolana flushed slightly. “Yes. Well… That’s true enough.”

 

The next door they found opened at the top of another staircase. Tristan murmured, “I don’t think the king’s men got past the demons.” They opened the door.

 

“—and neither did the Wardens, “ whispered Conrí.

 

Another handful of walking dead shambled toward them, all clad in filthy griffon tunics. These were frozen, beheaded, and the stilled bones kicked into a corner.

 

“Oh, what a lovely chapel!” cried Leliana, happily distracted from death-dealing.

 

The large room was devoted to a beautiful statue of the Prophet, set on a big dais and surrounded by votive candles. Personally, Conrí would have put a council chamber here, but Leliana was not the only one admiring the statue.

 

“Quite the looker, wasn’t she?” smirked Tristan. “I mean, she was a barbarian. How do we know she wasn’t as ugly as a tusked wild boar?”

 

Morrigan snickered, but Leliana was shocked beyond words.

 

“If she had been ugly as a tusked wild boar, Tristan,” Erin sighed. “A great warlord like Maferath would not have taken her as his wife, and other people would not have followed her, no matter how pure or noble her nature. We know from the record that she had a lovely and ensnaring voice. It was a source of great power for her. I think it’s very likely that she was beautiful enough for people to take notice of her and hear her out.”

 

“That’s reasonable,” Serena nodded. “And it makes sense if you think about it.”

 

“Indeed it does,” agreed Garik, preening slightly. “The beautiful do have certain advantages.” Serena rolled her eyes, cuffing him on the head.

 

“But we don’t have to worship that goddess of yours, do we?” Garik asked. “Not required, is it?”

 

Before anyone else could say anything, Conrí replied, “Absolutely not. All Grey Wardens have a right to their personal beliefs and traditional customs.”

 

“What if they are Chasind?” Morrigan inquired, with a touch of malice. “‘Tis their custom to eat human flesh!”

 

Exasperated, Conrí snarled, “They’d better not try to eat mine.” The warrior was beginning to tire of the witch’s barbed tongue. Even Tristan was mostly restrained when in the field, usually choosing to snark and nitpick when in camp. “Now, come on!”

 

The room they entered next was occupied.

 

“Is that—?” gasped Xolana.

 

“—Sophia Dryden?” whispered Garik.

 

“Grandmother?” croaked Levi Dryden.

 

Then the creature’s mouth opened, and it spoke; and Conrí knew that no human spirit dwelled behind that blackened, rotting face.

 

“Come no farther, Warden!” the demon commanded in a hoarse, unnatural voice. “This one would speak to you.”

 

Kiba, Tsume and Koun growled at the thing.

 

The demon growled back. “Get those beasts away from me!”

 

“Quiet, Kiba,” Blair said softly, her hand on the mabari’s head.

 

“Why should I speak with you?” Conrí asked, fingering his sword’s hilt.

 

The demon cackled its triumph. “Because the Peak is mine! I am the Dryden. Sophia. Commander. All of those things.”

 

“Sorry, Levi,” muttered Garik. “Your grandmother’s become a demon.”

 

“Either that,” the trader choked out, “or she’s really let herself go.”

 

Leliana shook her head. “I would not speak to it. It will utter nothing but lies.”

 

“Silence your fledglings!” the demon raged at Conrí. “They should be meek...subservient...quiet. This one would propose a deal.”

 

Conrí smirked and shouldered his blade. “You cannot possibly give me anything that I would want...other than your immediate death.”

 

“Fool!” snarled the Sophia-Demon.

 

It rushed on them, sword in hand, fighting not like a demon, but like a mere squatter inhabiting a body it had stolen. The body showed some skill with a blade; but without Sophia’s quick wit and powerful will, it really was only a puppet. Other skeletons rose from the floor. Levi fled the room, while the Wardens engaged the creatures. Conrí chose to fight the Sophia-Demon himself, battering her down, parrying her attacks, always a move ahead of her opponent. Conrí’s claymore was a big sword, but it obeyed him like his very flesh.

 

Koun fought at his side, distracting the demon, nipping at its legs, snapping at its elbows. The thing tripped, and Conrí laughed sharply, kicking in to back heel the thing and slammed the pommel of his sword into its chest to knock it off his feet.

 

“No!” shrieked the eerie, inhuman voice. Conrí’s sword sang as it sliced through the air as it came down, beheading the animated corpse. A brief, frenzied thrashing of the decapitated body, a rush of foul air, and the corpse lay still at long last, her splendid griffon-chased armor still gleaming.

 

All around the room, the walking dead were falling. A skull, sent on its way by Garik, whizzed past Conrí’s face and crashed into the wall, cracking plaster into a fine white powder. Another of the creatures scrabbled behind the writing table, savaged by Koun. Conrí dashed to his hound’s side, his booted foot crushing the walker’s skull into fragments.

 

He stumbled slightly as his boot went completely through the wall up to his knee, shattering plaster and laths together. He hopped slightly to keep his balance before yanking his foot out.

 

“And stay down!” shouted Erin, finishing off the last of their assailants. “What’s that?” she asked a moment later, staring at the hole in the wall.

 

“A hiding place!” Zevran shouted. “I knew the Wardens must have treasure somewhere! They concealed this, so that their enemies would never find it. Quick! Let us see!”

 

Conrí gripped the sides of the hole his foot had created and yanked, pulling much of the plaster away. “Zevran was right,” he said, catching sight of a chest with a familiar heraldry on the lid. Serna and Garik used their axes to chip away at the remaining paneling. The plaster had hid an alcove built into the stonework. A large iron chest was fully revealed. On a shelf above was a small iron strongbox. “Garik, would you mind?”

 

Garik grinned, drawing his new lock pick set. “Oh it would be a pleasure, Boss.”

 

He started with the small box; it was wide and flat, and in it was Warden correspondence and recruiting records. Important in the days of Sophia Dryden, but not of much import now.

  
With more effort, the lock on the big iron chest was defeated. Garik stepped away from the chest, with a bow and a sweeping gesture. Conrí and the other Wardens crowded forward, wanting to see.

 

Conrí took a breath and opened the chest. At first, his only impression was of rather smelly brown leather, and then he realized that he was seeing moneybags. Good sized ones, packed down together into the chest.

 

“Open them up!” cried Garik, losing control of his curiosity.

 

Conrí reached for a sack, and found it heavy. He untied the cord and reached a hand in. When he pulled it back and opened, in his gauntleted hand was a small of pile of gold coins.

 

“Is it all gold?” Xolana squeaked. “All of it?”

 

“Can I help count it?” asked Tristan.

 

There was a brief, reverent silence.

 

Dazed, confronted with something beyond his wildest hopes, Conrí tried to collect his thoughts and take a guess at how much was in the chest. Perhaps not all the bags contained gold, but before him from only a small handful was a dozen sovereigns. The Grey Wardens would eat and drink and arm themselves for the foreseeable future. Reluctantly, he pushed himself away from the chest and shut the lid.

 

“We don’t have time to gloat over this,” Conrí insisted. “We still have a castle full of demons to deal with. We can count the gold after that’s done.”

 

A mild glare was enough to push everyone through the entrance. There were deep, melancholy sighs as Conrí shut the door to the room behind them.

 

“Pull yourselves together,” he ordered, though he himself was just as disappointed. He never thought of himself as a greedy person, but that was a lot of treasure.

 

The other door off the chapel opened to the outside. Conrí was a little surprised to feel the sharp mountain wind in his face. It cleared his head of gold-fever somewhat. A stone bridge was before him, leading to the freestanding tower.

 

He had seen the bridge before, but from the ground. They were up pretty high, and a few of the walking dead noticed them and headed their way. Leliana and Tira picked them off before they reached their side of the bridge. One of the skeletons toppled over the side, far, far, down onto the rugged slope of the mountain.

 

“I still don’t think the king’s men got this far,” Tristan insisted. “So where do the dead come from?”

 

“Clearly,” Morrigan replied, “they died of wounds or were killed by the demons, and then possessed by them.”

 

“I suppose that’s possible,” Tristan admitted, looking sick. “I’ve seen just about all of them I can stand.”

 

To their surprise, the door at the other end of the bridge was neither locked nor barred. They opened it slowly, and were rushed by a few more of the skeletons. Everyone had a good grasp of how to destroy the things now. The creatures were frozen and beheaded within seconds. They then had a moment to look about them.

 

It was a antechamber, probably serving somewhat as a protection against the high winds. They pushed open the door on the far wall, and instantly Conrí had the feeling, however absurd, that this place was inhabited. It seemed to be a study of sorts. A short of flight of stairs led downward to a door. Another door was directly in front of them. Books lined the wall. A small lute rested on a shelf. Books and parchment were piled on a wooden table. Potion vials were neatly arranged on a wooden stand. Conrí lifted a tome from the table, and began flipping through it. With each word he read, his brow furrowed. After several moments, he looking as though his gaze alone would set the book alight. Finally having read enough, he slammed the book shut and tossed it back on the table.

 

“No dust,” Erin said, gripping her sword more tightly. “No dust on anything. Someone’s been here.”

 

Conrí’s senses tingled oddly. “You’re right,” he said. “There is a Grey Warden in the next room.”

 

* * *

 

“I hear you. Don’t interrupt my concentration.”

 

The sound of a quill scratching on parchment was extremely loud in the silence of the chamber they’d entered, which looked like some deranged combination of a dungeon and a laboratory. Cages in which long-dead corpses rotted lined the walls, and dusty book shelves bearing numerous, heavy leather-bound tomes on a multitude of subjects - blood magic, demons, darkspawn - were in place, but that was not what had caught Conrí’s attention. What held his attention was that in this room, the presence of the Taint was exceptionally strong.

 

The speaker was sat in a high-backed chair facing away from them, scribbling away at whatever it was working on. After a few more moments, there was the sound of wood scraping against stone; the figure sitting in the chair pushed itself away from the desk it was sitting at, making ready to face them.

 

“Even now, the demons seek to replenish their numbers. Are you to thank for this temporary but welcome imbalance?”

 

And then Conrí recognized him... eyes wide with astonished fear as a demon angrily snarled that his soul was theirs.

 

“The old Warden mage? Avernus? You’re still alive?” Conrí questioned.

 

“Only just,” came the reply. “I have only a short time left.”

 

“Careful,” Leliana cautioned, her face set in a look of distaste. “This… man has dabbled in matters forbidden by the Maker. He may look frail, but don’t trust him.”

 

Avernus’s mouth contorted into an angry snarl. “So the Maker told you that, did he? Short-sighted men forbade my research, girl, not any god. Bah, enough!” Avernus waved a dismissive hand and turned his attention back to Conrí. “Why are you here? What is your intent, Warden?”

 

“How do you know I’m a Warden?” Conrí crossed his arms.

 

“A combination of my research and blood magic” Avernus replied. “But even without that, who else would brave Soldier’s Peak?”

 

“We’ve all seen what you’ve done, Avernus. Your experiments,” Alistair snapped, remembering the journal they’d found outside, detailing all manner of unnatural, unholy experiments performed in the sanctum before them. Avernus, however, seemed unrepentant.

 

“They were necessary. Every tool, every iota of information needed to defeat the foul demons was justified. As a Warden, you should know this!” Avernus angrily growled back.

 

“Necessary?” Alistair scowled. “Having to relieve yourself after an eight-hour ride is necessary. But there’s no excuse for summoning demons!”

 

Avernus’s features contorted into a look of utter disgust. “Charming,” the mage muttered.

 

“How have you survived this long?” Conrí demanded.

 

“The Chantry foolishly forbids blood magic, but there is so many secrets to be discovered. As my body decayed, both because of age and… the taint, I found ways to extend it. Alas,” the mage finished with a sigh. “They can only go so far.”

 

“Blood magic, summoning demons… you had to know resorting to such tactics was foolhardy, to say the least!” Tristan cut in.

 

Avernus merely gave an indifferent shrug. “Perhaps, but it was survival. There was no other choice. For months, I researched the darkest depths of the Fade, prepared the summoning circles. That moment was a triumph of demonic lore; dozens of demons called forth by my hand!” Avernus cried, a look of jubilation and zeal in those mad eyes, before it faded into the bitter memory of the disappointment and failure that had followed. “But with so many variables, I suppose calculation errors were inevitable.”

 

“Commander Dryden knew of this?” Levi asked, speaking for the first time in a long while and looking thoroughly shocked.

 

Avernus barely spared him a glance before replying with another indifferent shrug. “She gave the order, but I would have summoned the demons anyway. Only under Wardens can true magical research continue! A chance to discover the lost secrets of ancient Tevinter!”

 

Leliana let out a noise of outrage as she cut in, fury in her voice as she snapped, “Are you really that much a fool? Don’t you remember how that ended? The corruption of the Golden City? The birth of the darkspawn, the very evil your Order was created to destroy?”

 

Avernus gave a derisive snort. “Chantry lies told to subjugate mages. To keep them docile.”

 

Leliana’s face went red with outrage, her voice choking with anger at such a grievous insult to something she held so dear. “How do you know the Chantry is wrong, you monster?”

 

“And how do you know they are right, girl?” Avernus angrily growled back. “Their dogma would have you swallow a great deal for cold comfort.”

 

“Enough!” Conrí cut across the arguing pair. Leliana started. Conrí rarely raised his voice. Conrí sent her a brief glance of apology before pointing an armored finger at the old mage. “That does not matter. What matters is that everything that happened here was your doing. You’re to blame for all of this. There are some things you just do not do. Even Wardens have boundaries, lines we do not cross.”

 

For the first time, subject to the baleful glare of those cold blue eyes and the harsh rumble of the young man’s voice, Avernus quailed a little. The smug air of superiority, of self-righteousness faded a bit, and the old mage looked to the floor. One might almost say he was ashamed. “From a Warden, that means something. So old, so tired. Please, give me a chance. Let me undo my greatest mistake.”

 

A soft cough caught their attention; Levi had plucked up the courage to speak again. “Before we go any further, there’s something I must ask. Master mage, ser,” Levi asked in a quiet voice, clearly uncertain how to address a person like Avernus. “The name Dryden’s been worth less than dirt for more than a century. Do you have any proof that Sophia Dryden was a hero?”

 

Avernus looked at Levi with genuine interest for the first time, if only, Conrí suspected, glad to have a distraction that took attention away from him. “The boy who braved the mist. So you heeded the call. And you are a Dryden as well?” the old mage chuckled. “The cosmos has a sense of humor!”

  
“Your call?” Erin enquired. The others also seemed intrigued.

 

“He was but a boy when he entered the tunnels below the Peak, his heart pure, his character certain. In dreams, I gave him the keys he would need. He would be my deliverance.”

 

“Just answer Levi’s question,” Conrí rumbled. Avernus looked contrite again, clearly not wanting to be on the receiving end of more condemnation, and turned back to Levi.

  
“Your great-great-grandmother...was the best of us. Brave, charismatic, fiery, utterly devoted to the fight. But still we lost. We fought a tyrant, you know? So full of vigor then, so blind to consequence. But proof?” the tainted mage concluded sadly. “There’s none to be had.” Levi’s head dropped sadly, his expression tired.

 

Leliana sidled up to the merchant and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Levi.”

 

The merchant looked up, a sad smile on his face replied “I had hoped...no it doesn’t matter. But thank you, miss.”

 

“What happened here?” Leliana asked swiftly, the story-teller in her curious for the history despite her dislike of Avernus.

 

Arland shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “What use would story-telling serve? The tyrant Arland is long dead, as are our noble co-conspirators and the grand rebellion. Sophia’s corpse may walk and talk, but she too is no more”

 

“How was Arland a tyrant?” Conrí asked.

 

Avernus’s lips pulled back from his teeth into an angry snarl. “He ruled with poison and fear! His treachery pitted noble against noble in terrible battle. We thought him a monster; we gathered allies to rebel!” But Avernus’s fervor dimmed a little then, his angry expression slipping into a more mournful, disappointed look. “But the toll of years have erased our failure, hasn’t it? It seemed so pressing then, but the kingdom lives on.”

 

“What became of the rebellion?” Serena asked.

 

“Too many mouths to feed,” Avernus sighed. “Even sorcery can only go so far. So we met up with Teyrn Bartholomew Cousland of Highever; with him on our side, we had a chance of victory. Instead, the king’s guards ambushed us. Commander Dryden and I barely escaped with our lives”

 

“The Couslands almost rebelled?” Erin interjected, curious despite herself. “Our family?” she looked to her brother. Avernus raised an intrigued eyebrow at this.

 

“Is it? You lost a great many family members that day. I saw the teyrn’s head on the meeting table...with an apple in its mouth,” Avernus said disgustedly, spitting at the memory. “Arland’s butchers no doubt slaughtered enough Couslands to make those he let live pliable.”

 

“And what became of Arland himself?” Conrí asked.

 

Avernus made a face as he continued. “The Mad King did not deign to come and command the slaughter himself; had he dared to show his face here, I would have torn him apart long before Sophia got the chance. But no, Arland was content to let his thugs do his dirty work for him while he languished in Denerim and indulged himself, along with his court of sycophants, in his favorite debaucheries. I didn’t hear what happened until many years after, locked away here as I was, but from what I’ve learned, sometime after his commanders reported victory at the Peak - though whether they actually slaughtered all the surviving Wardens or were too afraid to linger and content to let the demons do their work for them, I do not know - Arland decided to celebrate his ‘great triumph’,” Avernus spat with sarcastic venom. “With a hunt; clearly, he wanted to celebrate a massacre by killing something himself. One of his sycophants invited him to partake of the rich stocks of wild game in the Wending Woods, and Arland took the bootlick at his offer.”

 

Conrí frowned. The Wending Woods in Amaranthine? ”Who invited him?”

 

“Some backwater noble,” Avernus retorted with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Howe, I believe his name was. Ah yes, that was it… Arl Alfred Howe.”

 

Why am I not surprised to learn a Howe was involved in a plan to murder his betters? Conrí thought hatefully. “What happened?” he asked aloud.

 

“Too late, we learned a valuable lesson; one hidden dagger at night is worth a hundred drawn swords by day. As soon as they were along in the forests, Howe shot Arland in the back of the head with a crossbow. Arland’s Kings guard had been bribed not to intervene; the assassination must have been planned while Arland was busy devoting all his attention to crushing the Wardens. Not that it did any good; killing a tyrant does not guarantee the end of a tyranny. Arland’s sycophants and his enemies tore Ferelden apart as they carved out spheres of influence for themselves. It was many years before the country had any semblance of order… just in time for the Orlesians to take over,” the old mage finished sadly.

 

“The time for questions is over,” Conrí curtly said. Avernus nodded solemnly and looked the younger Warden in the eye, his expression resolute.

 

“So be it. My only request: if justice or vengeance drive you, stay your hand until the demons have been dealt with. Then… I will accept whatever judgment you feel I merit.”

 

Conrí nodded. “For the moment, we are allies. The demon possessing Sophia is dead, so we have one less thing to worry about.”

 

“Lead the way, Warden Cousland,” Avernus gestured to the door.

 

 

 

 


	21. Soldier’s Peak Reclaimed; On to Redcliffe

 

“Here is the source of the Veil’s weakness,” Avernus sighed. “I will unravel the summoning circles I drew so long ago, but you must defend me. Waves of spirits and demons may come through; dispatch them.”

 

Swiftly, the nine of them took up position in front of Avernus, the old mage stepping over the corpse of the abomination to place himself at one of the summoning circles. “I feel them. They are coming!”

 

The air rippled and a ghastly shriek rang out as the latest onslaught of demonic forces poured forth. Avernus took his place by one of the summoning circles, shouting phrases in the language of magic. A shade came charging from the Fade straight at Conrí, its fists swinging towards his head, but Conrí ducked away and drove his sword, its blade shimmering with telekinetic energy thanks to Morrigan, into the spirit’s heart; it gave a gibbering howl and guttered out of existence. The others also put down the shades facing them, Leliana and Alistair batting aside or dodging around scrabbling claws to split skulls or pierce hearts, while Morrigan settled for blasting the spectral creatures back to where they came from with lightning and fire.

 

The next wave of attackers were rage demons, howling and screaming for blood. By this point, two of the summoning circles had dissipated and Avernus was on the third. Tristan clicked his fingers and the energy enfolding his companions’ weapons became ice. The group quickly went to work, hacking through the fiery creatures with ease due to their ensorcelled weapons

 

By the time the old Warden was on the last circle, only one creature managed to make it through the gap in the Veil; a desire demon. The creature stood little chance against nine prepared combatants and its twisted essence was banished back to the Fade barely seconds after it had entered the real world. As Tira drew her blade from the demon’s chest in a spurt of black ichor, she saw that the air no longer rippled and shifted before her and the acrid, bitter taste in the back of her throat was gone. The others seemed to have come to a similar realization.

 

“It’s over,” Avernus sighed, wiping his wrinkled brow in relief. “The Veil is stronger now.” Conrí looked briefly at Xolana, who nodded in confirmation of the old Warden’s statement. Turning a humble but resolute expression to Conrí, Avernus stood before him, his hands clasped in front of him, awaiting his sentence.

 

“I said I would submit to judgment, and I shall. Can I be allowed to experiment in peace?”

 

Conrí gave Avernus his most lethal stare. He used the cloth covering the inside of his elbow joint to his clean the blood from his blade. “Your crimes were horrific, but they were somewhat mitigated by the fact you were trying to prevent even greater, and that you sacrificed so much of yourself to keep the demons caged here. I will not kill you, but I will insist you make amends. You will work on ways to assist the Grey Wardens, but you will do so in an ethical manner. No more sacrifices. If blood is required, you take mine and only mine.”

 

Avernus’s eyes widened in surprise; clearly he’d been expecting justice in the form of a sword against his neck. Still, he recovered himself quickly. “With what little time I have left, I will do this. It may take months or even years for this to reach fruition, but when it does, I will send for you. However, there is something I may be able to give you now to assist your efforts...” Avernus said, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small glass phial, sealed with a cork and full of a familiar reddish-black liquid.

 

“What is that?”

 

“The culmination of my research. The fruits of my labors; everything my experiments were meant to achieve. The contents of this vial will unlock the power of the taint that resides in your veins!”

 

“What was the purpose of your experiments?” Xolana enquired curiously.

 

“To stop the demonic tide. To counter the mistakes of the past. Blood magic comes from demons; they could counter every bit of lore I possess. But the darkspawn taint: that is alien to them… and it has power.”

 

“What sort of power?” Morrigan pressed on, clearly intrigued now. 

 

“The Wardens use it merely to sense darkspawn,” Avernus replied. “A triviality, a minor cantrip. But my research has suggested so much more, hinted at even greater heights. This knowledge has not only saved Soldier’s Peak; through it, the Grey Wardens could grow even more powerful! I leave it in your hands,” the old mage finished as he gingerly placed the phial in Conrí’s hands.

 

Conrí stared at the phial in his hands, uncertain what to do. It was the culmination of decades of horror and evil, but the power it might provide... Could it be of use in defeating the archdemon and the darkspawn? Alistair looked nonplussed about what to do, but Leliana looked aghast.

 

“Conrí, no! You can’t mean to use… he obtained it through years of torturing and experimenting on his fellows! He’s a monster; anything he created should be destroyed!”

 

“What he says makes sense,” Morrigan interjected, shaking her head at the bard’s, to her mind, foolish interjection. “If a single spell could win the battle, I would not question its source.”

 

“Your charming companion is quite correct, Warden Cousland,” Avernus added with an approving nod towards Morrigan. “You’d do well to heed her advice. If I may speak seriously, regardless of the methods I used to obtain it, this will help you. Even locked away as I am here, I know what is going on; a new Blight is upon us, and the power of the taint will be of great use against the darkspawn; to turn the power within their own blood against them would be quite poetic, I think,” Avernus chortled softly. “More than that, I have heard of this Loghain Mac Tir who sits upon the throne. He has his weapons; with this, we shall have ours.”

 

The notion of proving to Loghain the Grey Wardens still had power, that they were not as he seemed to think a relic of another time best forgotten or puppets of Ferelden’s erstwhile conquerors, appealed to Conrí, as did the notion of having another weapon with which to battle the Blight with. 

 

“Conrí,” Xolana muttered. “Are you sure about this?”

 

Conrí was quiet for a long moment. “If I use it, what will I become?” he asked as he toyed with the cork sealing the phial.

 

“Our salvation,” Avernus replied. “And perhaps… our future.” 

 

Conrí nodded in acceptance of this explanation, and before anyone could say more to dissuade him, uncorked the phial and drank its contents in a single gulp.

 

“There will be pain. But with it comes knowledge,” Avernus explained. “And knowledge...”

 

“Is power,” Conrí completed the old maxim with a smile. Pain suddenly wracked his body, forcing him to one knee, the glass vial slipping from his grip to shatter on the floor. 

 

“Conrí!” Erin cried, immediately dropping to her knees next to her brother, gasping in horror at what she saw. His veins had blackened and began showing through his skin. His eyes had turned pure white, emitting a familiar haze; the same haze as when the darkspawn were near. After several moments too long for Erin’s taste, the color returned to his eyes and his veins faded back into his skin. “Conrí, that was very foolish,” she whispered. “We can’t do this without you… I can’t do this…”

 

Conrí rose unsteadily to his feet and immediately took a long drink from his flask. “Don’t worry, sister. I’m alright. It wasn’t so bad… nowhere near as bad as the Joining, anyhow…”

 

Xolana swallowed hard. The pain brought him to his knees… and he says this was nothing compared to the actual Joining… As if I wasn’t skittish enough about this.

 

“I still don’t like the thought of you being a test subject for blood magic…” Erin murmured. 

 

“Erin, don’t be so naïve,” Conrí muttered. The rebuke was gentle, but Erin still frowned slightly. “The Joining itself is the darkest of blood magic. You know this.”

 

Erin sighed. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I like the thought of potentially losing the only blood I have left.” 

 

Conrí gripped his sister’s shoulder and gave her a rare smile. “How do you feel?” Avernus asked.

 

Conrí thought for a moment. The pain was all but gone, leaving only a slight ache in his muscles. “I feel… different.”

 

Avernus snorted. “Different? That is rather vague, Cousland. Different how?”

 

Conrí looked up at the ceiling, thinking.“It is an odd sensation… I feel like I’m about to drop but at the same time, I feel as if I could run the breadth of Fereldan. My mind is very clear… very alert... very sensitive to all impressions. I don't know if my vision is improved, or I'm just noticing things. My armor feels much lighter than it did before…” he drew his claymore and rolled his wrist, swinging the blade slowly. “My blade feels lighter too. I’d imagine my strength has increased a good deal.”

 

Avernus nodded and scribbled Conrí’s words onto a roll of parchment. “I imagine with the Peak secure, you will be continuing on soon?”

 

“Aye,” Conrí nodded. “I think we could all use a nights rest.”

 

“We need to take care of the bones first, Commander,” Blair pointed out.

 

“Very true,” Conrí sighed.

 

“Not to be disrespectful, Boss,” Garik started. “But after we take care of burning or burying or what every it is you surfacers do to your dead… could we… count the gold?” Even Tristan and Tira looked at Conrí eagerly. 

 

Conrí sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “In the morning, Brosca.”

 

Later that night, the group was gathered around the fireplace, sitting in chairs they’d managed to bring up onto the second floor. Conrí sat staring into the flames as he smoked his pipe and sipped on Antivan brandy. Commander Dryden had fine taste in liquor it seemed. After a while of contemplation, Conrí spoke up. “Wardens. I need to speak to you about something. The rest of you should probably head to bed. We have an early morning.”

 

Wynne’s eyes widened in recognition and she nodded, ushering those who were not Warden’s back downstairs to the bed chambers. Conrí grabbed Xolana’s wrist as she passed. 

 

“You might not be a Warden yet, but you still need to hear this,” Conrí muttered. The mage swallowed hard and returned to her seat. Conrí tapped out his pipe before repacking and lighting it again. He also grabbed the bottle of Dragon’s Peak bourbon that had been passed around and filled his tumbler. “Alright,” he said after taking a pull and a drink and he was sure the others were out of earshot. “Most of you know this first part, but Xolana doesn’t. Normally, you wouldn’t be told this until just before your Joining, Xolana. How do you think Grey Wardens are able to sense darkspawn and remain free of the taint?”

 

Xolana frowned. “I’m… not sure. I assumed it had something to do with magic during the ritual but…”

 

“You’re right. I’m not sure what the rest of the ingredients are besides Lyrium, but the main compound in the Joining Potion is Darkspawn blood,” Conrí rumbled.

 

Xolana’s eyes widened. “That… doesn’t sound healthy…”

 

Conrí gave a dry humorless chuckle. “It isn’t. Many die during the Joining. But those who survive are able to sense the Darkspawn and the Archdemon, and also gain an immunity to the taint. At least… for a time.”

 

“For a time?” Serena asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

 

Conrí sighed and took a long drink. “Aye. The Taint… it’s a death sentence. From the moment the blood touched your lips, you had thirty years… give or take.”

 

The sound of a chair striking the floor echoed through the empty hall as Tristan surged to his feet, fury written all over his face. “Thirty years?! You’re telling me, I’m only going to live to be fifty-three years old?!”

 

“Yes,” Conrí rumbled wearily, deciding not to reprimand the mage. His own reaction hadn’t been much more reserved. “Or you can take an arrow to the throat tomorrow or get torn in half by an ogre. Or you could have died in the tower during Uldred’s little revolt. Thirty years can feel like an eternity in comparison. We take this burden so the rest of the world doesn’t have to.”

 

“It… seems like a high price to pay…” Serena mumbled. 

 

“It is. But is any price too high to stop a blight?” Conrí asked. 

 

“He’s right, Tristan,” Tira agreed, Tsume giving a low whine as she rubbed against her partner’s leg. “I would have been dead or worse months ago if not for the Wardens.” She scratched her faithful companion on the head.

 

Tristan scowled and stormed downstairs. When Xolana went to follow, she was again stopped by a Cousland. 

 

“He has to sort this out for himself, Xolana,” Erin rasped. “He’ll understand. Eventually.” Erin turned back to Conrí. “I see now why you didn’t want me to join the Wardens, Brother.”

 

“It’s a little late for regrets, Sister,” Conrí sighed before chugging the rest of his drink.

  
“Not regret,” Erin shook her head. “Just… understanding. You had a look in your eyes during our Joining. Now I understand why that was.”

 

“We do what we do because no one else will,” Conrí told her. “We fight so others don’t have to. We die so innocent blood isn’t shed. We aren’t heroes. This is our burden. Our calling. One way or another, this is what we were born to do. And I don’t intend to let those who came before look upon us in disappointment. Do you?”

 

* * *

 

After a hearty breakfast and about a half hour of counting the thirty-odd bags of coins from the chest, Conrí announced the final tally. “Over three thousand sovereigns. I do believe this calls for a bonus,” he chuckled. “How does twenty gold a piece sound?”

 

“Sounds like money well earned, Boss,” Garik laughed as Conrí handed him a stack of gold coins. “Never had this much coin before. Actually, before we found the chest, I’d never seen this much coin.”

 

After handing out his fellow’s coin, Conrí turned to Levi, who had agreed to take over as acting seneschal for the Peak. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find out more about your grandmother, Levi. I know coin won’t mend that disappointment but consider this a thanks for leading us here.”

 

Levi gave the Warden a dejected smile. “I could use some help cleaning up the Peak, Commander. Do you mind if I bring my family up here? We could fix the place up a bit. And my cousin Mikhael is the finest smith you’ll see outside Orzammar.”

 

“I see no problem with that,” Conrí nodded. “I only ask you look after Oren and Oriana while Erin and I are not here. Oren is the curious type, but he’ll listen to his mother, so don’t worry about him being underfoot too much.”

 

Levi grinned. “Oh, that’ll be no trouble, Commander. One of my nephews has a little one about his age. Should be thick as thieves by the time you get back.”

 

Conrí smiled slightly. “Your grandmother, I’m not sure about. But you’re a good man, Levi,” he said, before turning to head down the stairs. He found Xolana on the landing below the main floor, an old tome open in her hand. “What’s got you so enthralled, Amell?”

 

“Huh?” Xolana looked up, flushing slightly at her rather simple expression. “Sorry, Conrí. I found this book in Avernus’s office. It says something about a cache Commander Asturian left. Supposedly it’s tied to this old portrait and the Warden’s oath. But it doesn’t work when I recite it so I think only a Warden could open the cache. And since I’m technically not a Warden yet… if you don’t mind…” she gestured to the fireplace. 

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow at the mage but shrugged and approached the old portrait. “In War, Victory,” he rumbled. “In Peace, Vigilance… In Death…” Conrí’s mind wandered to his fellows… there was much he hadn’t told them yet… “Sacrifice.”

 

The fire immediately snuffed itself, shocking both warrior and mage. Bricks in the fireplace and the wall above began to shift separate and move in ways that could only be the work of magic. When the wall settled again, one couldn’t be sure if it had ever been there on the first place. Conrí strode inside, finding the ‘cache’ was more like an armory. Fine armor and weapons lined the walls; Avernus’s spell must have kept them from falling into disrepair. There were all manner of arms and armor in the cache, from daggers to mauls and mage robes to heavy plate, each emblazoned with the twin headed griffon of the Warden Commander. All of them were polished drakeskin, shining silverite or the deep red of dragon bone…

 

Except for a small collection near the back. Three longswords lay on a unique stand. Two of the longswords, both in a design Conrí had never seen, lay crossed on the stand beneath the third. The blade on the right was the silver and blue of the grey wardens while its twin on the left was a unique crimson and gold. When Conrí went to pick one up, he pulled his hand back with a hiss. “Conrí?” Xolana asked, concerned.

 

“These blades aren’t meant for me,” he said. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I can’t really explain it…” Conrí muttered. “I get the feeling… these blades don’t… want me for some reason.”

 

Xolana frowned and reached for the red and gold sword. Unlike Conrí, she was able to wrap her hand around the hilt and lift it from the stand. “Look at this,” Xolana pointed to etching in the sides of the blade. 

 

Conrí tilted his head but the word written in the metal wasn’t familiar to him. “Looks like gibberish to me,” he said with a chuckle.

 

Xolana rolled her eyes. “It’s Arcanum, the native language of Tevinter. Most spells are in this language.”

 

“Well, what does it say?”

 

“’The Phoenix.’ It’s an old Tevinter legend about a bird that, when it’s time for it to die, sets itself on fire and is reborn from the ashes.”

 

Conrí nodded, having heard of the creature in his childhood. “It still doesn’t explain why you were able to touch the sword when I wasn’t…”

 

“I don’t know,” Xolana sighed. “Maybe it only responds to mages?”

 

“Mages who use swords?” Conrí frowned. “Never heard of that before. Spears, I understand since they can be a disguised staff, but never swords.”

 

“Neither have I, but I guess anything is possible,” Xolana told him. She tilted her head to look at the sword’s blue and silver twin. “Ah, the other has ‘The Griffon’ etched into the side. Fitting, I think.”

 

Conrí grunted and let his eyes drift to the third sword. Unlike the twin swords, this one was in a sheath and Conrí was able to pick it up. “I think… I know this one,” he breathed, pulling the blade from is sheath. The blade was black but gleamed like obsidian glass, even in the dull light streaming through the windows. “This is Commander Asturian’s sword.”

 

“So, what did you find?” Alistair’s voice came from just behind them, almost making the pair drop the razor sharp weapons on their feet.

 

“Damnit, Alistair!” Conrí barked. “You pick the time we’re holding weapons that could cut our limbs off to be sneaky?!”

 

“Dear Andraste, sorry!” Alistair cried. “What is that?”

 

“The fabled Asturian’s Might,” Conrí told him with a mild glare. After letting Alistair squirm for a moment, Conrí reversed the sword and held it out hilt first. “See how it feels.”

 

Alistair blinked but took the blade and gave a few careful swings. “It feels like it was made for me,” he said, awed. 

 

“Then it’s yours,” Conrí said simply, handing Alistair the sheath. “It’s bound to be better than the piece of scrap iron you’ve been toting around.”

 

Alistair eyed the grey iron longsword at his hip. He’d been given the blade when he reached Ostagar. It was old when he’d received it and now was on its last legs. As much as he’d like to keep using the blade, practicality made him nod. “You’re right,” he grumbled. He handed the sword back to Conrí before un-belting his current weapon and replacing the simple leather sheath with the sturdier one made of wood and steel. When the scabbard was attached, Alistair once again took Asturian’s Might and sheathed it. It was a comfortable weight on his hip, definitely designed for someone of his fighting style. “This is a Commander’s weapon. Any particular reason you don’t use it? You’ve said before you’ve been trained with a longsword.”

 

“Be more weight to carry around,” Conrí shrugged. “Might take it off your hands when the Blight is put down, but for now… it’ll get more use in your hands than it would in mine.”

 

Alistair nodded, seeing the sense in the de facto Commander’s words. “We headed out soon?” he asked.

 

“Aye. Get the cart loaded and ready to go,” Conrí commanded. “I want to be on the road before lunch.”

 

“You got it,” Alistair chuckled as he made his way out of the armory.

 

* * *

 

As the group finally got moving, with much grumbling from Garik and Blair, Conrí fell into step alongside Sten. “So, will you tell me now why you were in that cage?”

 

“I caged myself,” Sten admitted. “A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware.”

 

“Are you saying you put yourself in that cage?”

 

“I know that my failures were my own. I told you before that I was sent here,” Conrí nodded and motioned for Sten to continue. “I was not sent alone. I came to your lands with seven of the Beresaad—My brothers—to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Fereldan country side without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe. Until the night we camped by lake Calenhad. They came from everywhere: the earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harbored the darkspawn. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, too late. I fell.”

 

“That sounds like what happened to Erin at Ostagar,” Conrí said darkly, still ashamed and angered at the memory of that night.

 

“I heard the stories of Ostagar. Your kith stood their ground when others fled. No one can do more than that. I don’t know how long I lay on the battle field among the dead, nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I awoke I was no longer among my brothers. And my sword was gone from my hand.”  


“You probably dropped it on the battlefield,” Conrí told him.

 

“Perhaps. I searched for it. When that failed, I asked my rescuers what had become of it. They said they found me with nothing,”

 

“Did you believe them?”

 

“I did. They had no reason to lie to me,” Sten sighed. “I panicked. Unthinking, I struck them down.”  
  
“You panicked over a lost blade?” Conrí asked, shocked. He was rather attached to his claymore, but not enough to cut down a family in cold blood.

 

“That sword was made for my hand alone,” Sten told him, his violet eyes suddenly burning. “I have carried it from the day I was sent into the Beresaad, I was to die wielding it for my people. Even if I could cross Fereldan and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the Arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam. They would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he still drew breath.”

 

“Couldn’t you search for it?” Conrí asked.

 

“If I knew where to look, it would be in my hand now.”

 

“Where did you fight the darkspawn?”

 

“Near Lake Calenhad,” Sten grumbled.

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll find it,” Conrí told him. He was beginning to understand Sten a bit better. A Qunari must see in their weapon their very soul. If one lost his blade, he’s lost his soul. If finding this blade brought the giant warrior peace, it was worth searching.

 

“Perhaps those words are empty,” Sten rumbled. “But… Thank you all the same.”

 

Conrí nodded and continued on. They were about two weeks from Redcliffe, even along the imperial Highway. 

 

“So, you say Arl Eamon raised you?”

 

Alistair looked up as Serena addressed him. The question caught Alistair, who’d gotten used to the silence of the road, by surprise, not least because he wasn’t quite sure how best to explain the story of his somewhat murky past to his companion, so Alistair decided to address it the way he usually did such things.

 

“Did I say that? I meant wild dogs raised me. Giant flying dogs from the Anderfels, a whole pack of them in fact!”

 

“That would explain the smell,” Serena snarked. Truth be told, none of them smelled particularly pleasant; the pleasures of the hot bath in the peak camp were quite forgotten and the immediate lack of water sources at times when they made camp meant that the ability to attend to their hygiene was somewhat intermittent. The group had acquired various means to deal with the matter; Leliana always emitted the pleasant smell of those pale white wildflowers known as Andraste’s Grace they’d discovered she had a fondness for. When asked about it, she had smirked and said that she always kept the blossoms in her brassiere to stay fresh. Alistair initially wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, but when Conrí had put the question to her, Leliana had demonstrated with one after Conrí presented her with another flower. Morrigan never smelled any different, always projecting a faint air of pine needles, even though the great pine forests of the Korcari Wilds were far behind them; Alistair wondered if the witch would lower herself to use her magic for a simple cantrip as disguising an unpleasant scent. Sten, however, lathed his flesh with a strong smelling, though not unpleasant oil that certainly disguised any other scent. Koun, of course, smelled of wet, muddy dog.

 

Feeling they were drifting from the conversation, Alistair returned to the matter they had been discussing. “Well, it wasn’t until I was eight that I discovered you didn’t have to lick yourself clean. Old habits die hard, you know.”

 

“So does a horde of darkspawn.”

 

“Hmm. Point taken,” Alistair agreed, his expression becoming much more sober. He gave a reluctant sigh and answered “Let’s see. How do I explain this? I’m a bastard. And before you make any smart comments,” he said, eying Serena’s face sharply and pointing a warning finger at his companion, stopping her just as Serena opened her mouth, “I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be. I respect the man and I don’t blame him any more for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough.”

 

“Arl Eamon wasn’t your father? Do you know who was?” Serena questioned, no doubt confused as to why a man as powerful and important as Eamon would go to so much effort to bring up a child who wasn’t of his own blood. Uneasiness struck Alistair as he wondered Should I tell her the truth?  before dismissing it; there’d be time enough for that later.

 

Still, Alistair couldn’t suppress a rather sour grimace at the memory as he replied. “I know who I was told was my father. He died even before my mother did, but that’s not important.”

 

“So why did Eamon send you to the Chantry?”

 

“Several years after he took me in, Arl Eamon married a young woman from Orlais; it caused all sorts of problems with the King because it was so soon after the war. But… he loved her.” Serena nodded at this, as though she understood how love could make people willing to do things that went against all rational thought. Alistair wondered what such things were, but dismissed it as a matter for another time.

 

“Anyway, the new Arlessa was never too fond of me. I think she resented the rumors that pegged me as his bastard; they weren’t true, but of course they existed. The Arl didn’t care, but she did. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten, just as well really. The Arlessa had made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point; she despised me.”

 

“What a terrible thing to do to a child,” Serena muttered, frowning and furrowing her brow. Alistair could understand his comrade’s displeasure: she was a child of dwarven nobility, had probably never wanted for anything growing up. No doubt she thought it abominable that the arl had been willing to cast aside a child whom he’d spent ten years bringing up as an apparent act of charity, solely for the affections of a shrewish woman who’d made said child’s life a living nightmare. Alistair, however, had had long years to come to terms with the matter.

 

“Maybe,” Alistair replied to Serena’s ire with a small shrug. “She felt threatened by my presence, I can see that now. I can’t say I blame her. She wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet.” They walked on quietly for a few seconds before Alistair spoke again, thinking aloud. “I remember I had an amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother’s. I was so furious at being sent away, I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything… and eventually he just stopped coming.”

 

“You were young,” was Serena’s sympathetic answer.

 

“And raised by dogs. Or I might as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that, I don’t know. All I know is that the arl is a good man and well-loved by the people. He also was King Cailan’s uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did. Anyway… that’s really all there is to the story. Why did you want to know?”

 

“Well, since Redcliffe’s our next stop, I was curious about what kind of welcome we’re likely to expect,” Serena replied, causing another slew of unease to pass through Alistair at the mention of Redcliffe; a good many people there knew of his history and that past was sure to be mentioned. It’s probably going to better if they hear it from my mouth rather than some random villager... Alistair thought. But how does one just bring it up?

 

As the sun began to set beyond the horizon, Conrí called to stop for the night. They had made better progress than he had hoped, cutting the two weeks he had anticipated to about ten days if they could keep this pace. 

 

After supper, Conrí announced he’d take first watch with Leliana quickly volunteering to sit beside him. She’d done this many times over the past number of months, spaced enough to avoid unneeded questions but often enough to keep a friendly conversation flowing. They’d chatted over their lives before the Blight and Conrí had joined the Wardens as a bid to find his place in the world. 

 

This night however, was different. Leliana was unusually quiet. This caused Conrí some concern for the normally loquacious bard. Silence stretched until Leliana was sure the others were sound asleep. 

 

“I lied to you. About why I left Orlais,” she said finally as Conrí came back from a sweep of the campsite. The look of regret on Leliana’s face told Conrí she’d clearly been holding this back for some time, a feeling that both intrigued and worried him.

 

“I had a feeling you weren’t telling me everything,” he said, sitting down beside her, remembering an earlier talk they’d had about the nature of the mysterious and dangerous Orlesian bards - actors, singers, tale-tellers and assassins - and her involvement with them in her youth. “So you didn’t just get tired of the life?”

 

“In a way, I did,” she replied. “But these events were influenced by thoughts and feelings I did not have. The truth is I came to Ferelden because I was being hunted.”

 

“You’re a criminal?” Conrí enquired, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

  
Leliana looked at him directly now, and he could see a mix of emotions in those emerald orbs; pain, regret, anger and loss. “I was framed. Betrayed, by somebody I knew, and thought I could trust. Marjolaine.” The way she spat the name as though it were something foul in her mouth spoke to Conrí of great affection and respect, tainted irrevocably by the bitter memory of whatever had passed between them.

 

“She was my mentor, and my friend. She taught me the bardic arts, how to enchant with song, to carry myself like a high-born lady, to blend in as a servant. The skills I learnt, I used to serve her, because I enjoyed it… and I loved her.”

 

“So, this Marjolaine… was a bard also?” Conrí questioned, wanting to get a better understanding of the circumstances and trying to suppress an infantile moment of jealousy at the mention of Leliana’s affection for this woman.

 

“She claimed to have retired. She married an Orlesian nobleman, and inherited his wealth when he died. To many, she was just a rich widow.” For a moment, Conrí had to wonder if this Marjolaine had had anything to do with her husband’s demise. Considering what Leliana said, and what I know of Orlesian intrigues, it would not surprise me!

 

Leliana seemed to grasp his wagon train of thought as she continued, “My devotion to her blinded me to her… less than noble attributes.”

 

“So you were dutiful, but she still betrayed you?”

 

Leliana gave a brief nod and continued her tale. “You could say it was my fault. Marjolaine decide we should have some fun in Denerim, causing general mayhem with the merchants, ruining the career of a guard. Light work for a bard, if I’m honest. Eventually, we were to break into the Arl of Denerim’s estate for a client. After slipping past the guards I planted a number of documents as Marjolaine had instructed. My curiosity got the better of me. Something told me I had to know what was in those letters. Marjolaine... had been selling Orlesian information to Fereldan and other countries. Nevarra and Antiva among others. It was treason.”

 

“Isn’t that what bards do?” Conrí questioned, acquainted with the stories that bards were devious enough to do anything to achieve their goals. The question made Leliana wince, as though she disliked the accusation.

 

“Some. But I had assumed Marjolaine only operated within Orlais outside the occasional field trip to cause a little merry havoc. It was an unhappy surprise for me. My concern was not that she was a traitor, but that her life would be in danger if she was caught. Orlais has been at war with so many countries, that any information was vital. I soon learned all too well how vital.”

 

“What do you mean?” Conrí asked, feeling an uneasy chill go through him. Leliana looked pained and stayed silent for so long, Conrí thought she wouldn’t answer him. But before he could open his mouth to force an answer, she continued, though her voice was much softer and uncertain.

 

“I should have left well enough alone, but I didn’t. I had to tell Marjolaine I feared for her life. She was angry with me for opening the letters, but brushed aside my concern, saying they were false documents. I wasn’t so sure. Maybe her client had wanted to provoke the other nobles into renewing the war… I found out I was right… just not on what side was trying to provoke the other.”

 

Conrí felt his blood run cold, especially as he knew what had likely come next. “What happened then?”

 

To his horrified shock, Leliana looked away, and he saw tears begin to fall from those brilliant green eyes. “Commander Harwen Raleigh and his men… they captured me… did terrible things to me,” she blurted, struggling to get the words out as the horrors of whatever she had endured came back to her. “It was a spy’s punishment, and at the end all that awaited me was eternity in an unmarked g-grave…” she finished sobbingly, her control finally shattering as the memories of her suffering overcame her, the thoughts of what had created the scars that marked her, both upon her flesh and the scars that couldn’t be seen. 

 

Without thinking, Conrí reached out and embraced her, pulling her close to his chest, just giving her what comfort he could. As the girl pressed her head against his chest, he could feel her willingness to take his comfort, but she then relinquished herself from his embrace, as though she did not think herself worthy of his compassion, and Conrí felt a great surge of hatred towards the woman whose callous, brutal actions had reduced the young woman who’d seemed so assured, so certain of the right path in Lothering to a sobbing wreck.

 

“Bitch.” Conrí heard himself snarl, trying to picture this conniving churl, who would so casually cast aside as devoted and loyal a companion as Leliana to save her own worthless hide, in a voice that was a deadly hiss. “Did you seek her out, this… Marjolaine?”

 

The bard slowly regained her composure and lifted her head from Conrí’s armor-clad chest, wiping away her tears and breathing steadily until her voice was steady again.

 

“No. I had the opportunity, but I didn’t want to become her. I dealt with Raleigh and managed to retrieve the documents Marjolaine had stolen from a Mother in Orlais… but I let Marjolaine go. I refused to walk her path. So she left.”

 

“And so you stayed in Ferelden.” Conrí concluded. Leliana gave a weary sigh and nodded.

 

“I fled to Lothering, and the Chantry. Ferelden protected my person, and the Chantry saved my soul.” She took a deep breath. “And that is the real reason I am here. No more lies between us. At least in this.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

 

Conrí reached out and brushed the tear aside, gently holding Leliana as she regained her composure again. She took a deep breath and looked up at him, a soft smile on her lips. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to be so compassionate or understanding about the confession of her past sins. She rarely saw the more human side of the warrior, but she rather liked when she did. 

 

“I’m sorry for keeping this from you for so long, but I feared… if you knew the truth, you would think of me in a way that would… make you think less of me, or even despise me...”

 

“Why would I do that? You didn’t come to me because I was a nobleman, but because I was a Grey Warden. You didn’t care about what I might have been or done, or the lies you must have heard; you came to me because you believed I could help you. I won’t cast you aside or judge you for matters in your past. I promise you this. If this Marjolaine ever thinks to attack you again, she’ll be meeting my blade. She will never lay a hand on you again, or enable her pets to do so. Of that, you have my word. And a Cousland never breaks his word.”

 

“It feels good to have this off my chest. Thank you for listening… and understanding,” Leliana smiled wanly, the relief in her voice at his reaction clear. “Tug and Sketch would have liked you.”

 

“Tug and Sketch?” Conrí questioned. 

 

And so Leliana told of her companions in crime, a former Orzammar carta thug named Tug and a skittish elven apostate named Sketch. As per usual, Leliana did most of the talking while Conrí listened, his eyes only leaving her to scan the camp to insure nothing was sneaking up on them in the night. It was only when Tira and Erin emerged from their tents did the conversation stop and the bard and warrior parted, each going to bed with a lot to think about.

 

* * *

 

“Never thought I’d say this,” Garik groaned as he stretched while following Serena down to the brook the next day. “But I’m getting used to that... what did they call it? The Sky? Yeah. I'm getting used to that.”

 

Serena sighed from her place beside Garik. “I'm not scared of falling into it anymore, but I still don't like it.”

 

“I hear ya.” Garik nodded. “Still prefer sleeping in that tent than outside myself. How do these surfacers live their entire lives without a proper ceiling over their heads?”

 

“Stone take ‘em all, I don't understand it myself,” Serena shook her head. “Worse yet, they don't like it underground. What's NOT to like down in Orzammar!?”

 

“You're seriously asking a Duster that, Princess?” Garik smirked.

 

“Oh, don't even pretend you don't miss it, Duster or no,” Serena snarked.

 

Garik just shrugged. “The city itself as it is right now, I could care less about. I miss being underground, miss getting into trouble with Leske, hell I miss Rica codling me.”

 

“It's true…” said Serena thoughtfully. “I never thought I'd miss something so simple as a permanent roof over my head.”

 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Garik chuckled dryly. “We have to head there at some point. Apparently we have a treaty.”

 

Serena stayed silent for a while, her brows furrowed. “I'm not sure what to think about that. Surely I should have known about such a treaty but now... it's just appeared out of nowhere. I should remember something from the Memories, but Ancestors save me, I can’t recall.”

 

“Don't feel bad. I didn't find out about it until we were leaving for the wilds.”

 

“That really doesn’t make me feel any better, Duster,” Serena snickered.

 

Garik rolled his eyes. “I will give the surface this, though. The food is a lot better and the ale doesn't taste like dirt.”

 

“You only say that because you never had the good stuff,” Serena sniffed. “The ale up here pales in comparison.”

 

Garik snickered. He had in fact stolen a mug or two of Valenta’s Red. “Oh, I’m sure. Food is better. Can't deny that. Don't get me wrong, I do occasionally find myself craving a rack of nug ribs but there's a lot more different kinds of meat up here.” Serena grumbled a bit before finally disgruntedly agreeing. “Are you gonna be sour the whole way to the river or do I have to start making funny faces?”

 

“I'm not sour!” Serena protested. “...I just miss Orzammar, is all.”

 

Garik sighed. “Look Princess, ya miss your home, I get that. But it can't distract you. You honestly think Boss Man and Big Red don't miss their home? You saw what happened there.”

 

“It's not like this will stop me from killing darkspawn should they come at me,” Serena said stubbornly. “Don't even worry.”

 

“Serena, you keep dwelling on this and you'll end up going crazy.”

 

“I'll show you crazy if you don't shut up soon,” Serena growled.

 

Garik finally groaned and rubbed his face. “Fine Princess, have it your way.”

 

Serena gave a slight huff. “And why do you still insist on calling me princess, anyway?” she asked

 

“Dunno,” Garik shrugged. “Just seems natural to me.”

 

“Well I'm not the princess anymore, nor will I ever be again,” Serena told him. “You should stop. We're both just Grey Wardens now.”

 

“You say that as if wasn't a step up,” Garik pointed out. “Well, for me at least. Better dying a Grey Warden then starving to death as some thug in Dust Town.”

 

Serena was taken aback. “That... was not what I meant. I apologize.”

 

Garik waved her off dismissively. “No need. Didn't say it to be a guilt trip.”

 

Serena looked more thoughtful. “Yet I should have chosen my words more wisely. What I meant to say was that regardless of what we were before, we are the same now. Dwarves on the surface. Outcasts of Orzammar. Grey Wardens.”

 

“As I said, a step up. I'd rather be an outcast than someone who should have been drown at birth.”

 

Serena shook her head sadly. “I don't know what to say to you, Garik. I have not lived through what you've experienced.”

 

“All I’m saying is there are worse fates than walking the surface or being a Warden,” Garik sighed. “It is what it is. And Cousland is a lot easier to work for than Beraht ever was. I have a purpose now, and so do you. Its fine to miss your home, but don't let it eat at you.”

 

“You know... you're not half bad for a former Duster. And you have a good head on your shoulders.”

 

“Hey, not all of us were the scum of Thedas,” Garik chuckled. “Most of us, I’ll grant you, but not all of us. And it wouldn't be that way if not for that stupid caste system, but that's a whole other issue. I will admit, I worry for my ma and sister, but Rica's a tough broad. I think they'll be alright until I see 'em next.”

 

Serena was about to comment ‘if we see them again’ but bit it back. “I'm sure they'll be fine, from what you've told us,” she said instead.

 

Before Garik could answer Erin called to them from further down the path. “If you two are quite done jawing, pick it up! We need to catch dinner before sundown.”

 

The dwarves rolled their eyes and followed their much taller companion. “Those long legs of yours give you an unfair advantage, Big Red!” Garik snarked.

 

Erin turned as she came to the banks of the river, a sly smirk on her face. “These legs are good for more than walking, Brosca. Not that you’ll ever find out.”

 

Garik laughed. “That’s what they all say! But I always prove them wrong.” 

 

* * *

  
Later that night, Xolana approached the witch carefully in a rare quiet moment. “...Morrigan?” she asked hesitantly. “Would you mind if I sat with you?”

 

Morrigan sighed quietly as her pestle pulverized an elfroot. So the other leashed mage wanted to talk. “If you wish. So long as you don't sit on my bag of components.”

 

“Thanks for the warning; I can be a bit of a klutz sometimes,” Xolana sat down near the apostate with an awkward smile, trying to brighten the mood but soon realizing she was clearly failing. “...Sorry. I feel like I'm acting a fool.”

 

Morrigan smirked. “Well, at least you are not acting as bad as Alistair,” she said with a snicker.

 

Xolana laughed genuinely this time. “Well, I think anyone would be hard-pressed to act quite that foolish... Oh, I'm glad you said that. I was starting to worry you had no sense of humor.”

 

“I have a sense of humor,” Morrigan snipped. “It is just quite different from what most consider acceptable. Not that I much care, but there it is.”

 

“Ha, well if that doesn't put you and I in the same boat there, I don't know what does,” Xolana smiled. “Not caring is a good attitude, though. Perhaps the most sane one.”

 

“'Tis an odd thing to consider you the sanest of the group,” Morrigan chuckled.

 

“We all have our quirks,” Xolana smirked. “And sanity is just a matter of perspective anyway; make up your own mind, and consider me as you will.”

 

“How very practical. I must say, I have slightly higher hopes for all the mages in the Tower if more are like you and Tristan.”

 

Xolana fell into a somewhat more somber mood. “Yes, the tower... the blasted tower,” Xolana muttered. “Did you know of its existence before meeting us? Did your mother teach you about how mages live in our world?”

 

“Of course she did,” Morrigan snorted. “She also told me that mages are rounded up and imprisoned there merely for being what they are. I am somewhat amazed that you did not escape before the Wardens arrived.”

 

Xolana gave ahumor-less laugh. “You don't think I would have tried had I seen even the slightest opportunity? As it stands, I already bent the rules as much as I could possibly get away with, almost at the cost of my life.”

 

“Then you are quite lucky the De Facto commander has a level head,” Morrigan said simply.

 

“You're probably right there. Morrigan...” Xolana quieted for a long moment. “I was... wondering. What was it like to be... free? Don't get me wrong, I know you wanted more from life... It's the human condition, isn't it? Always wanting what you do not or even cannot have... perhaps we should be careful what we wish for. But I... Well. I just don't know what it's like anymore. Since joining the Wardens I have finally left the Tower and been able to make more of my life, this is true and for that I am incredibly grateful, but... I am still not exactly in charge of my life, my destiny. I was wondering...” Xolana shut herself up. “Urgh, forgive me. I shouldn't have asked. I am being too forward - forgive my rudeness. “  


 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Morrigan waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, Flemeth kept me free, but I was forced to live in a small shack in the middle of a cold wilderness. And Flemeth was no great company either. As I told the Wardens, what I want is to see the world. Before now, I had no true opportunity.”

 

Xolana listened in silence and eventually nodded meekly. “Perhaps we are more alike than I was willing to believe after all.”

 

Morrigan laughed evilly. “'Tis a frightening thought, no?”

 

Xolana laughed as well. “That was not the adjective I was going to use but... I suppose it is.”

 

“I have a question of my own, if you will indulge me.”

 

Xolana was a bit surprised but nodded. “Please, ask away.”

 

“Was it just fear of reprisal that kept you from escaping?” the witched asked. “I vaguely remember Mother mentioning the Templars had some power to track Mages of the Circle, but I do not know how true it is.”

 

Xolana sighed wearily. “If I had tried hard enough, I could have probably found and destroyed my phylactery... they would not have been able to track me then. I suppose that answers your question about the tracking,” Xolana was silent for a moment, then took deep breath. “No, it wasn't just fear of reprisal that stopped me. It was also the fear of the unknown. Fear of the outside world. You know, mages are locked up not just for the ‘protection’ of the rest of humanity... ‘normal’ people hate us enough to oftentimes be more dangerous to us than we are to them. And... well. I suppose you can imagine I may have had another reason, too.”

 

“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider… is chaos for the fly. Hm... I suppose you make a convincing point, however. But what is this Phylactery?” Morrigan asked.

 

“When they first take us, the templars will take a small amount of blood from us and contain them in small vessels, or phylacteries. Using these ‘essences of our spirits’, they can track us wherever we try to run.”

 

“Wait...” Morrigan barked. “Are you telling me that the Templars, who quake in their boots at the mere mention of blood magic... use it themselves?  


 

“Ironic, is it not?” Xolana snorted. “They try to keep this silent or else excuse this practice as ‘a means to an end’ whenever they can, yet they would judge and punish me for doing the same.”

 

“Oh, I am quite prepared to hand Alistair his head for holding this templar thing over mine...” Morrigan growled.

 

Xolana chuckled. “I've thought about it, but ultimately, we're now all Wardens together. It's not worth the antagonism. Besides, so far I've only needed to use my Blood Magic once so far... I was hoping not to let Alistair know about it when we first met, but as the Maker wills it, it was a matter of life and death. I imagine I will have to call upon these powers again before our duty is done, but I don't make light play of them. At the end of the day, the Templars do have one thing right: Blood Magic is, indeed, dangerous.”

 

“Indeed it is,” Morrigan agreed. “From what I hear, ‘twas an impressive display of magic, blood or no.”

 

“Well...” to the witch’s surprise, the blood mage was perhaps a bit embarrassed. “I just did what I could.”

 

“Modesty,” Morrigan chuckled. “Cannot say I expected that. I think you, Tristan and I shall work well together.”

 

Xolana recovered a bit. “Well, modesty is not exactly what I'm known for, but... I don't speak much of my Blood Magic. Habit, I suppose.”

 

“'Tis not something best bandied about, this is true. Would you mind terribly retrieving the Elfroot from my satchel?”  


 

Xolana looked to the satchel and dug around carefully until she found the Elfroot. “Ah, here. What do you have in mind?” she asked as she handed the leaves to Morrigan.

 

“Conrí has requested I brew a number of health potions. 'Tis far less costly than purchasing them no?” Morrigan explained.

 

“That is true. Between the dangers of doing anything remotely related to magic, the few mages who are willing to interact with the outside world and the ridiculous taxes some templars try to enforce on potions.... well. You might be able to imagine.”

 

“’Tis quite ludicrous,” Morrigan muttered. “The ingredients alone cost no more than a silver yet a potion will cost five. Do you have any experience with herbs? Perhaps you could assist me.”

 

“I do not have as much talent as you, but I am willing to learn,” Xolana nodded. “Surely the time will come where an extra pair of hands may save lives, if you will teach me.”

 

“Gladly,” Morrigan handed Xolana an extra mortar and pestle. “’Tis not very complicated after all. Be thankful I do not share my mother’s delight in speaking in riddles, however.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “Indeed, that would make this a lot more difficult. As it stands, however, I must agree with what you said earlier - I think we will work well together.”

 

* * *

 

Several days passed as the group continued to get to know each other. Wynne had joined Morrigan and Xolana in making more potions. It was one of the few times the apostate and the Senior Enchanter could have a civilized conversation. Xolana learned much during those nights both of medicinal effects and growing patterns of certain plants.

 

Garik and Serena argued frequently, though they were friendly arguments, if such a thing could truly exist. Usually the argument would spawn from sparring, during which Garik would inevitably cheat. Quite unrepentantly in fact. It didn’t always work, however, as just as often as not, Garik found himself flat on his back, looking up at the former princess.

 

Erin and Tira would spend hours at a time discussing their cultures, both eager to learn more about the others world. Tira explained the markings in her flesh; vallaslin or blood writing. Apparently it was a mark of adulthood. Erin chuckled when she pulled down the collar of her shirt to reveal a laurel wreath tattooed over her heart. Her family had a similar tradition, but it was mostly reserved for the sons. Eleanor had been horrified when she learned of Erin’s addition.

 

Tristan’s visits to Morrigan’s tent at night seemed to get a bit more frequent lately, much to the camp’s irritation. Well, most of the camp. Xolana thought it was hilarious and frequently commended the pair for their volume. Tristan would roll his eyes and shake his head while Morrigan laughed evilly. Wynne’s words of caution to Tristan were met with a thanks but a firm denial of her need for involvement. Both mages were of age and in little danger of procreating with Morrigan’s skill with herbs.

 

Blair was one of the first to really warm up to Zevran, speaking to the Crow at length about his adventure before coming to Fereldan. His flirty nature amused Blair, usually able to dodge his advances with a well timed quip aimed at his pride. Zevran took the barbs in stride, not in least deterred by Blair’s refusals. 

 

When their destination neared, everyone once again began getting quieter. Much as it had in Honnleath, the feeling in the air got tenser as the group neared Redcliffe Village. But, unlike Shale’s old village, there were no Darkspawn in the area, at least not that Conrí could sense. But one thing was for sure.

 

Something evil had been unleashed in Redcliffe.

 


	22. The Dead Should Stay Dead

 

“Look, can we talk for a moment? There’s something I need to tell you that… that I probably should have told you a long time ago.”

 

“Let me guess,” Garik suddenly snarked. “You’re an idiot!” 

 

It was meant as a one off joke but Alistair ran with it. “Yes! That’s right! I stopped us all to tell everyone I’m an idiot! Whoo! Now I can stop worrying I’ll be found out.”

 

Conrí chuckled dryly. “That sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.”

 

“Well, I’m a witty idiot, what can I say?” Alistair quickly sobered. “You remember me telling you about my mother, right? She was a serving girl who died when I was young and Arl Eamon took me in? The reason he did that was because… because my father was King Maric. Which makes Cailan my half-brother, I suppose.”

 

“Oh.” Garik’s jaw hung slackly open, and he wasn’t the only one caught on the back foot by the revelation. Serena and the others began to look at him closely, scrutinizing his features, no doubt comparing him to the paintings, pictures and other imagery of Maric and, no doubt, Cailan, they had seen in their lives. Eyes began to widen in recognition as they clearly saw similarities between him and the late King. It was nothing new; people had been remarking on it to Alistair all his life. The physical resemblance in face and hair, similarities in demeanor, the unholy love of cheese, even the minor fascination with the Grey Wardens. Judging from the expression on Conrí’s face, however, his superior was not at all surprised.

 

“So… that makes you not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?” Tira snarked.

 

“Ha! Yes, I guess I am at that. I should use that line more often.” Alistair allowed himself a soft smile. His mirth quickly faded, however. “I would have told you, but… it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule and so they kept me secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me… even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. But it seems our illustrious Commander already knew this,” he added.

 

Conrí crossed his arms and shrugged. “Figured it out when I saw you and Cailan next to each other before Ostagar. Confronted Cailan about it and he caved.” Alistair shook his head. It was still a bit surreal when Conrí talked about his friendship with Alistair’s half brother.

 

“Does Loghain know about this?” Erin asked with a tacit nod in the direction of Zevran. 

 

“Why wouldn’t he? He was King Maric’s best friend. I don’t know if that means anything, I certainly never considered that it might be important.”

 

“So why are you telling us now?” Serena asked her already low opinion of this Arl Eamon dropping even lower.

 

“Because it will probably come up,” Alistair replied grudgingly. It was true; a good number of people in the settlement below knew about his past, and mentions of it were bound to surface sooner or later. “I didn’t want to walk into Redcliffe without you knowing; that would have been just awkward. I’m under no illusions about my status, however. It was always made clear to me that I am a commoner, and now a Grey Warden, and no way in line for the throne. And that’s fine by me. No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not of royal blood, but he is Cailan’s uncle… and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though… if he’s really as sick as we’ve heard…” Alistair blinked, and looked out over the village and the distant castle. “No, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t. So there you have it. Now we can move on, and I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some… nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

 

Alistair turned on his heel and began to make his way down the hill when he heard Erin call out behind him. “And what does that make us?”

 

Alistair turned round to see Erin staring at him with a questioning expression. “The reason why I think we have a chance of setting things right,” Alistair replied, grinning at the incredulous look on Erin’s face at this.

 

* * *

 

Bann Teagan sighed and ran a hand through his tousled, disheveled hair, trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes and stifle his exhaustion. He was weary beyond belief, the exertions of the nights and the worry of the day over the last few weeks taking their toll. At present, he wished nothing more than to curl up on the floor of the Chantry and sleep, but he knew that was not an option. The air of fear inside was palpable, and the valiant efforts of Revered Mother Hannah to calm the panicking women, children and elderly of the village were not being successful, not that he could hardly blame them; their situation wasn’t one that allowed hope to bloom.

 

He heard footsteps approaching behind him and the sound of someone clearing their throat. Knowing that whatever news he was about to receive wouldn’t be good, he turned reluctantly. “Milord, the guard watching the bridge is not at his post,” one of the few guards in the Chantry at that moment remarked.

 

Teagan gave a groan of annoyance. Another deserter. It seemed not even the fate of the last attempt to flee the village could discourage desperate, frightened individuals from trying to make it out. The wrecked wagons and bodies torn asunder left by the slaughter of the handful who had tried to flee the village had been located and torched, for fear they would return come nightfall along with the others that fell upon the village.

 

“Very well. Tell Murdock to have someone take his place; we don’t want to be caught off guard by a surprise attack...”

 

“No, milord, he’s not deserted. He’s on his way down… and he seems to have company with him.”

 

“Company? Who?”

 

“Don’t rightly know, my lord. None of them bore any crest or heraldry I could recognize. I don’t think they’re some of the arl’s men, but they don’t look like mere passers-by.”

 

“Very well,” Teagan muttered, brushing specks of dirt off his worn, but still fine clothing and ensuring his sword belt hadn’t slipped too low.

 

The double doors to the Chantry swung open and Teagan saw one of Murdock’s militia leading in a rather strange group of people. At the head of the group, two men and a woman with the bearing of soldiers, one with short, spiky blonde hair clad in heavily worn, but still functional splintmail and bearing a curved sword and a wooden shield with no heraldry, the other with long blood red hair, clad in elegantly decorated armor forged of viridium, bearing a fine Greatsword. The young redheaded woman was wearing a light set of steel chain with a pair of longswords strapped to her back. Behind them, an impressive looking Qunari warrior, clad in heavy chainmail and bearing a battleaxe that looked like it had seen much use, flanked by a mabari war hound, while bringing up the rear, a tall, blonde male elf in leather armor with a sword and dagger sheathed at his waist strode beside two women, one with dark hair and pale skin, clad in an… eclectic ensemble of clothing and carrying a long wooden staff, the other with short red hair, also wearing functional leather armor with a longbow resting on her back.

 

Behind them were two women and a young elven man with more fundamental robes. The first woman had dark hair and caramel colored skin. The elf was quite a bit paler and seemed mightily uncomfortable in the chantry. The other woman was older, her hair stark white, but her stride straight and strong. No invalid she. Alongside her were two elves, one ash blonde carrying a pair of daggers, the other… looked different. She had tattoos covering most of her visible skin and bore a curved longbow and a pair of swords. Was she Dalish?... 

 

Bringing up the rear was a pair of dwarves and, of all things, a golem. The first of the dwarves was female, a warrior by the look of her armor and weapons. Her companion was definitely a rogue with an odd marking on his right cheek.

 

The group quickly made their way across the room and stopped before the bann, who turned his gaze to the militiaman, expecting him to introduce the new arrivals.

 

“It’s Thomas, isn’t it? And who are these fellows with you? They are obviously not simple travelers.”

 

“No, my lord” the militiaman answered. “They just arrived, and I thought you would want to speak to them.”

 

“Very good,” Teagan said to the militiaman before turning his attention to their visitors, giving a full bow by means of welcome. “Greetings, friends,” I am Teagan, Bann of Rainsefere and brother to the arl.”

 

“I remember you, Bann Teagan, though the last time we met, I was a lot younger… and covered in mud,” the young man with spiky blonde hair spoke up, a wry grin on his face.

 

“Covered in mud?” Teagan quizzically asked, scrutinizing the young man carefully. ‘Come to think of it, he does look familiar...’ Teagan thought. That mischievous smile, those same wide, bright eyes… and then it hit him; the memory of an eight-year old boy, covered head to toe in viscous black mud, grinning happily at the day’s mischief in spite of Isolde shouting herself hoarse at him...

 

“Alistair? It is you, isn’t it? You’re alive! This is wonderful news!” Teagan cried with a genuine smile crossing his lips for the first time since the chaos engulfing the village had begun.

 

To his surprise, Alistair’s grin diminished a little as he replied, “Still alive, though not for much longer, if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it,” directing a cold glare at the blonde male elf stood behind him, who looked unabashed at the ire focused on him.

 

“Indeed. Loghain would have us believe all the Grey Wardens perished at Ostagar, along with my nephew.”

 

“So you don’t believe Loghain’s words?” the other young man asked. Teagan turned his attention to the fellow and nearly did a double-take; the youth was the spitting image of the young Bryce Cousland he’d met all those years ago in Denerim, both at Maric’s coronation and his wedding to Rowan, though this young man had blood red hair rather than the dark auburn of the teyrn. A relation, perhaps? he thought.

 

In answer to the youth’s question, Teagan scoffed and replied. “What, that he pulled his men out in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory? Hardly. He claims Cailan was taken by the legend of your order and believed himself invulnerable. I don’t believe it; it is the action of a desperate man.”

 

The young man nodded in relief and Teagan realized then how much of a risk it had been simply walking into the village; if he had been a supporter of Loghain, he could have ordered the militia to round up the group and claim the bounty Arl Howe had put out on him and his fellows. Though Teagan suspected this group would have easily killed plenty before being incapacitated, or even managed to fight their way out. 

 

“So you are a Grey Warden as well?” Teagan asked, receiving a brisk nod in answer. “If I may ask, good ser, have we met before? You look very familiar to me.”

 

“You might have known my father, Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever. I am Conrí, his younger son.”

 

“Ah, that’s it. A pleasure to meet you, friend Conrí, though I wish it was under better circumstances. And you have my condolences for what happened to your family. I knew your parents, not well, but enough to respect them. When Ferelden is put to rights, you’ll have my full support - and that of my brother, I’d wager - to exact justice on that viper, Howe.” The youth gave a brisk nod at the mention of the murdering traitor who’d brought his family low and Teagan chose to let the matter drop; he didn’t know if the lad knew Loghain had awarded Howe with the lands and title of the man he’d murdered, and Teagan didn’t wish to bring it up, not if he wanted to stay on the youth’s good side long enough to procure his help. “Now if I may ask, what brings you here? While I’m most happy to see you Alistair, and your companions, I don’t imagine this is a social call.”

 

“Our duty as Grey Wardens brought us here,” Conrí replied. “We are trying to assemble an army, using old treaties our order possesses, to counter the Blight. We have acquired the aid of the Circle of Magi already, and we can acquire the loyalty of the Dalish elves and the dwarves with similar documents. Alistair had hoped that we could convince Arl Eamon to lend his ‘popularity’ and support to our cause.”

 

Maybe it was his imagination, but Teagan sensed that this young man didn’t hold the bann’s lord brother in very high esteem. “So you are here to see my brother? Unfortunately, that might be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill. Nobody has heard from the castle in days, no guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts. The attacks started a few nights ago. Evil… things… surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault.”

 

Conrí frowned. “What evil things are you talking about?”

 

Teagan paused for a moment, trying to think of how best to describe the nightmarish foe they were facing. The enemy was a far more horrific foe than any he’d faced before; not only in their decrepit appearance and unrelenting, unstoppable bloodlust, but the fact that every time he would see a face he recognized; a serving girl here, a knight in service to his brother there, or worse, the face of a man or woman who mere days before had been alive and well in the village. All twisted and reshaped by whatever evil had reanimated their bodies, but still recognizable. And then to see them attack the village, mouths twisted into feral snarls, dead eyes wild with insatiable hunger for flesh, and tear apart men and women who’d been their friends and families with their bare hands and teeth… it had taken all his courage after the terror of the first night to continue fighting such monstrosities, and he knew that not all those in the village were as able to come to terms with the horrors they had witnessed.

 

“I do not know,” Teagan shook his head. “They appear to be the walking dead; men with rotting flesh that continue to fight despite the gravest of injuries.”

 

“Undead,” the dark haired woman opined, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “Spirits possessing the dead. There could be any number of causes for such a thing, none of them pleasant.”

 

“Magic?” the young Cousland asked of the woman. She nodded and Teagan had to suppress a grimace. Magic. If that was what was behind the dead rising, who knew what else it might do? And more worryingly, what was behind it?

 

“What happened after that?” the taller red head asked, interrupting Teagan’s ruminations as he recognized Eleanor Cousland’s features in the young woman. This must be Conrí’s twin. Erin, he thought he heard her called.

 

“They hit again, the next night. Each night they come with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war for the throne, nobody responds to my urgent calls for help,” Teagan continued, trying to suppress the suspicion he was beginning to form that Loghain was deliberately ignoring him, using the chaos in Redcliffe to his advantage in suppressing another opponent to his tyranny from causing trouble. It would not surprise him, not after the altercation at the Landsmeet and the way in which the regent was terrorizing any noble with the temerity to oppose him.

“I have a feeling that tonight’s assault will be the worst yet.” He turned back to Alistair. “I hate to ask, but we desperately need the help of you and your friends.”

 

“It isn’t just up to me,” Alistair replied reluctantly. “Though the Grey Wardens don’t stand much chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon,” he added as an afterthought in the direction of Conrí, who was becoming more obviously disgruntled. No, he had no love for Eamon. But they needed numbers.

 

“What say you, my friend?” Teagan asked of the young Cousland, his tone almost begging.

 

“You wish my help? You don’t even know me,” Conrí crossed his arms. His words weren’t accusing or suspicious. In fact they sounded almost wary, as if Teagan was a bit foolish to trust someone he’d just met.

 

“I know Alistair. And I trust those he chooses to follow,” Teagan answered, holding his breath, dreading the answer to come. To his surprise, Conrí unfolded his arms and extended his hand in offering to Teagan.

 

“If you need my aid, you have it, and my sword. I will not stand idly by and let whatever evil threatens you do more harm. I’ve waited several weeks to see to Arl Eamon; another night won’t do much harm.”

 

The blonde elf, one of the mage women, the elven mage and the Qunari voiced objections to the youth’s answer, but Conrí either ignored or responded to their complaints or disputes with blunt, logical advice. The pair of dwarves, the golem and the Dalish elf seemed indifferent but followed Conrí’s word. Alistair, Erin, the elder mage, her dusky skinned counterpart, the female elf and the red-head nodded approvingly with the young Cousland’s decision. 

 

Teagan darted forward to gratefully shake Conrí’s hand, the relief in his voice clear. “Thank you! Thank you, this means more to me than you can guess!” Withdrawing his hand and hoping the youth wouldn’t think less of him for the outburst of emotion, Teagan turned his attention back to the militiaman. “Thomas, please tell Murdock what transpired, then return to your post.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Thomas replied, almost bounding out of the Chantry. Teagan smiled at the new-found enthusiasm in the man, mirrored in the faces of some of the women and children: a Grey Warden helping them here and now was a much greater help than the absent regent’s empty promises and assurances. Putting that aside, Teagan looked up at one of the windows: it was late afternoon and the sun was already beginning to dip in the sky. They would have to be swift if they were to prepare the village for the onslaught by nightfall.

 

“Now, I’ve placed two men in charge of the village’s defenses outside. Murdock, the mayor, is outside with the militia. Ser Perth, one of Eamon’s knights, is up at the windmill. You may discuss with them preparations for the coming battle.”

 

Conrí nodded and the group quickly made to leave, briefly speaking to one woman near to the door; the missionary’s wife, Jetta if Teagan remembered correctly, and then they were out of the Chantry door, away to their tasks. For a moment, Teagan wondered if he should tell them what he knew; the location of the secret passage, but dismissed it. He could only imagine how Alistair and Conrí would react to this knowledge. Likely, try to storm the castle by themselves in hot-blooded battle lust in an effort to find Eamon, and Teagan knew that the safety of the village and its people had to come first.

 

If they survived the night, he’d make amends for the deception in the morning.

 

If not, he could always make his apologies when they all stood before the Maker.

 

* * *

 

As the group got down the steps, Conrí immediately began giving out instructions. “Erin, you Tira, Blair and Leliana should look for Kaitlyn’s brother. He should still be around here somewhere. The Sentries haven’t spotted anyone heading towards the castle. Take Koun, Kiba and Tsume with you. Their noses could be useful. Alistair, Wynne, and Zevran head up the hill and talk to Ser Perth. Shale, would you mind going with them?”

 

The golem thought for a moment. “Since it asked, I will do it. So long as it doesn’t start ordering me about like my former master.”

 

“Perish the thought,” Conrí droned. “Find out what Perth knows and what he and his men need. Tristan, Morrigan, Xolana Serena, Garik, I want you to look around town. Check the store and the tavern for anything useful. See if there’s anything to make better traps than what we have. Sten, you and I are going to talk to the mayor. See what he needs.”

 

“I still question the wisdom of aiding these basra, but I will follow, Warden,” the Qunari rumbled. They had stopped near where Sten had been attacked by the Darkspawn. They’d found a scavenger who’d directed them to a man named Faryn, a merchant who’d already picked the bones of the Qunari scouts. He was said to be heading towards the Frostbacks to the gates of Orzammar. The Qunari was surprised that Conrí was actively searching for his blade, but said nothing. False hope did him no good.

 

The group split up to go about their assigned tasks. Conrí approached the mayor as the gravel voiced man gave orders to a few men of the militia. When the militiamen were gone, the man turned to Conrí. “So you’re the Grey Warden, eh?” he said. “Heard they all died with the king.”

 

Conrí shrugged wearily. “I could be a ghost for all you know.”

 

“Ha!” the mayor barked out a laugh. “If it takes a few ghosts to stop these blasted creatures, then I’ll take it. But you look plenty solid to me. Name’s Murdock, mayor of what’s left of this village.”

 

“Anything you need, mayor?” Conrí asked. 

 

“We need what armor and weapons we have repaired as most of them are falling apart on us. Owen is the only blacksmith who can repair them, but the stubborn old fool refuses to even talk. If were to be ready tonight, we'll need the crotchety bastard's help.”

 

“Why does he refuse to help?” 

 

“His daughter, Valena, is one of the arlessa's maids,” Murdock told Conrí. “So he hasn't heard from her since this whole business started. He demanded we attack the castle, break down the gate and force our way in to rescue her. I said it was impossible, but he wouldn't listen. He'd locked himself in the smithy now. I can't force him to do repairs… he'd rather die first than make any of our needed repairs.”

 

Conrí nodded before asking, “Anything else?”

 

“We could use some extra bodies. We have squeezed nearly all the village's men and a few of the woman into service, but we really need more. Having a veteran like Dwyn in the militia would help a lot, but he flat out refuses.”

 

“Tell me about this Dwyn,” Conrí requested.

 

“He’s a dwarf, a trader he says. He’s holed up in his house and refuses to come out and help. It would boost moral to have such a veteran alongside us. Maybe you can talk to him.”

 

Conrí nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

 

“Don’t drink with Owen,” Murdock advised. “That’s how he sucks you in.”

 

Conrí nodded again and made his way to the Smithy Murdock had motioned to. 

 

* * *

 

“I would end up getting stuck with the rescue assignment...” Erin shook her head as she led her group through town.

 

“The child must be terrified, though,” Blair reasoned. Unlike her fellows in the Alienage, she’d never bore ill will for humans as a whole. To her, this boy was no lower in importance than an elven child. “The quicker we can get him back to his family, the better.”

 

“And then we can also return to the others and help with the defense of the town,” Tira added. 

 

“I only wish Kaitlyn had given us something of Bevin's for Koun, Kiba and Tsume to smell,” Leliana lamented. “Did she mention where her house was?”

 

“All she said was not far from the waterfront,” Erin sighed. “We may as well start there.”

 

Blair frowned. “It is strange that they had nothing of his to help us with...”

 

“...but she did say where the house was,” Tira reminded her. “Down this way if I recall correctly...”

 

“The boy had just run off, I think,” Erin explained. “The Sentries haven't mentioned seeing anyone try to leave or head to the castle, so he's still in town.”

 

Tira nodded slowly. “I would bet he ran back home. Where else could he possibly go?”

 

“It’s where I would go…” Blair muttered.

 

Koun's and Kiba's ears perked up and the pair begin sniffing the threshold of a house. After a long moment, the large mabari both turned to their companions and barked excitedly.

 

“I think they found it,” Erin chuckled. 

 

“Yeah it should be around here, so this must be it,” Tira nodded.

 

Erin drew her sword and tested the handle on the door. “It’s unlocked. Come on.”

 

Everyone drew their weapons carefully; Tira entered first, her soft-soled boots ghosting across the floor. Tsume slipped through the door behind her friend, sniffing carefully towards the small room off the main room. She growled quietly when she heard a slight gasp coming from the wardrobe.

 

Erin readied her sword and approached the wardrobe. “Who’s in there?” she barked.

 

“Go away!” came a young voice from inside. “This isn't your home! This is my home, you hear me?!”

 

Blair snuck closer, daggers drawn, and carefully knocked on the wardrobe. Tira’s bow was drawn and fixed on the wardrobe. “I said, go away!” the voice cried.

 

Erin motioned for the others to wait. “Bevin, is that you?” Tira’s eyes widened and she lowered her bow. The voice did sound quite young. 

 

“How do you know my name?!” the voice squeaked.

 

“Your sister asked us to find you,” Leliana answered gently.

 

“Did she ask you to take me back to the chantry? I don't want to go back! Everyone is scared! I don't want to be scared. I want to be brave!”

 

Erin lowered sword, now convinced this wasn’t a dangerous squatter. “From in there?” she asked, fighting a smile as Tira and Blair also lowered their weapons.

 

“There are better ways to show bravery than hiding in a wardrobe, Bevin,” Blair chuckled, as she sheathed her daggers.

 

“... I only hid when I heard your dogs barking....” came the slightly sulky reply.

 

“You can come out, Bevin,” said Erin as she sheathed her sword. “We're not going to hurt you.”

 

“Al-… Alright.” A boy, barely out from behind his mother’s skirts, pouted as he came out of the wardrobe. “You’re not gonna make me go back to the chantry are you?”

 

“Why were you here in the first place?” Erin asked. 

 

“And... Why don't you want to come back to the chantry?” Blair added.

 

“I... came looking for my grandfather’s sword,” Bevin explained. “Father said I could have Grandfather’s sword when I grew up. I wanted to be able to avenge mother. But the sword was too heavy...”

 

“You had the right idea, kid,” Erin said, ruffling the lad’s hair. “But we'll handle it from here. Where is your grandfather’s sword? I think my friend could make use of it.”

 

“It’s upstairs in the chest... but...”

 

“Don't worry,” Tira smiled. “We'll help your sister as well. It’s only fair.”

 

“You will?” Bevin’s eyes widened. “Maybe... you could give her some money... she's been so worried since mother was taken.”

 

“We'll defiantly talk to her about it,” Erin promised. “You have my word.”

 

“Thank you,” Bevin smiled. “I suppose I’d... better get back to the chantry, then. Kaitlyn is bound to be worried.”

 

“Should someone go with him, just in case?” Tira asked.

 

“Koun, go with Bevin,” Erin ordered. Koun barked happily and led the boy out.

 

“Erin, what do you think about the sword?” Blair asked.

 

Erin shrugged. “Let’s find out,” the quartet head upstairs and found the unlocked chest. Erin pulled a curved sword from it, drawing the viridium blade from its sturdy oak sheath. “It’s a fine sword...” she murmured. “Huh. Rare to find a Dalish weapon among humans...” she shrugged again and offered the sword to Tira.

 

Tira looked at it with wonder; it was of fine Elven make indeed, but she frowned as she took it in her hand. “But... Erin, what about you? The sword you carry is starting to look worse for wear, and this one would be a more than fine replacement.”

 

Erin gripped her family sword as pain shot across her expression. “I... You need it more than I do...” she muttered, not meeting the Dalish elf’s eyes. “And... I can't part with this sword.... Not until…”

 

Leliana looked at the sword in Erin’s hand and spied the laurel wreath on the pommel. “Conrí has the same Heraldry on his sword…” she stopped talking immediately. 

 

Tira covered her mouth with her hand. She remembered discussing Erin’s family a number of weeks before. Erin even showed Tira the laurel wreath tattooed over her heart. The Dalish felt truly ashamed that she had forgotten. 

 

“Erin...” Blair cleared her throat a bit. “I don't know, I think your sword still looks fine. Nothing a good smith can't fix.”

 

Erin shook her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she muttered before spotting Tira’s guilty look. “It’s alright, Tira. I never explained why I keep this blade around.”

 

“I... I'm still sorry,” Tira mumbled, suddenly finding her boots very interesting. 

 

“Come on, there's no point still loitering around here,” Blair interrupted the awkward silence. 

 

Leliana nodded nervously and lead the group out.

 

After walking in silence for a minute, Erin turned to Tira. “Tira, you didn't know. Don't worry about it too much.”

 

“I will try not to,” Tira sighed. “But I should really have considered that you may have some special motivation to keep this sword.”

 

“It's my family's sword,” Erin told her. “I promised my mother I would use it when I killed Howe. Until I can give it to my brother Fergus... if I... no. Until I know otherwise, Fergus is alive and when I get the opportunity, the sword goes to him.”

 

“We will find Fergus,” Tira assured her comrade, squeezing the human’s shoulder. “Until then, it is your sword, and you do it honor.”

 

Erin smiled slightly. “Thank you, Tira.”

 

* * *

 

After his trip to the smithy, having wrung a deal out of Owen in exchange for looking for his daughter, Conrí headed towards Dwyn’s home. The dwarf’s house was close to the lake shore, and upon finding it, Conrí loudly slammed his gauntleted fist three times against the wooden door. There was no answer. Deciding that the time for treading softly had passed, as the sun was sinking ever lower, Conrí took a step back, and then smashed his foot into the lock. With a loud, splintering crunch, the door swung back from the force of the kick, opening the way in. An angry dwarf, flanked by two seedy-looking thugs stood inside, glowering at the large pair who’d forced their way in. Their weapons and armor were of fine make, particularly the longsword clearly forged by a master smith strapped to the dwarf’s back.

 

“Wonderful. Intruders,” the dwarf groused. “I hope you’ve a good reason for breaking and entering into my home.”

 

“Sorry about your door,” Conrí replied nonchalantly, “but I did give you the chance to open up.”

 

“Apology accepted. The name’s Dwyn, pleased to meet you. Now get out,” was the sarcastic reply.

 

“I’m told Murdock wants your aid for the militia?”

 

“So what? You’re recruiting for him? I’ll tell you what I told Murdock; I’m not risking my neck for this town.”

 

“Surely, there must be some way to change your mind?” Conrí offered in a diplomatic tone; he had no wish to start a fight with the dwarf, not when it would likely mean he would be exhausted and unable to fight against the coming foe as effectively as he could. The dwarf idly toyed with the knots of his beard; for all his grouchy bluster, the dwarf was a merchant and a miser at heart, and the chance to enrich himself would always be at the forefront of his mind.

 

“Maybe, let’s hear what you’ve got,” the dwarf muttered.

 

“You help out now, I’ll tell Bann Teagan to put in a good word for you with his brother. The gratitude of a powerful arl, surely that’d be a good thing for a surface dwarf to have?”

 

The dwarf twisted his beard around his fingers, no doubt wagering the benefits of getting in Arl Eamon’s gratitude against the risks of putting himself at risk fighting a horde of undead monsters. After a few moments, greed won out over caution, Dwyn no doubt lured by the prospect of chests brimming with gold sovereigns and lucrative trade contracts, and he reluctantly nodded. “You might be able to pull that off. Fine, we’ll throw in with the militia, for now. But you’d better be out there too when the sun goes down!” he added as an angry afterthought. “I’m not fighting for a lost cause, you hear me?”

 

With that, the dwarf and his underlings headed for the village square to speak to Murdock, the hired thugs glaring at Conrí as they passed him. With nothing more to be said, Conrí and Sten followed, heading back to the village square and report to Murdock when they saw that the square was empty. A large crowd of the militia, along with a few braver villagers who’d emerged from the Chantry, was gathered in a circle at the foot of the small hillock atop which sat the village tavern. Conrí and the others headed over, trying to see what all the fuss was about. In the centre of the circle of people, he could see two slight figures grappling and throwing punches at one another.

 

The landlord, a corpulent fellow with sweat streaking down his jowls, was angrily staring at the spectacle, a pretty red-haired barmaid at his elbow looking rather nervous, the big man angrily shouting. “That’s the last time I let knife-ears through the door!”

 

The words ‘knife-ears’ caught Conrí’s attention; pushing though to the front of the crowd, he looked onto the brawl and sure enough, saw Zevran viciously pummeling a dark-haired male elf in splintmail armor. Snarling in anger, the other elf drew a sword and slashed out at Zevran’s head, but the Crow ducked under the attack and with a deft motion, scythed his opponent’s legs from under him. The other elf went down, landing heavily on his back; he tried to roll over and get back to his feet, but before he could, Zevran had pinned his opponent to the floor with a foot on his back, seized a handful of the elf’s hair to pull his head back, and placed a dagger at his throat.

 

“ZEVRAN!” Conrí angrily bellowed, furious at the elf for flouting his wishes so brazenly. “What did I say about keeping out of trouble?”

 

To his annoyance, the elf didn’t look remotely chastened, but defiant. “You should be thanking me, Warden. I’ve found a viper in your midst and pulled him from his lair by the tail!”

 

“What do you mean?” Conrí snapped, looking down at the prostrate elf. He didn’t look particularly dangerous or threatening, but as Conrí had come to learn, one should not judge individuals by their appearance alone, as Leliana, Zathrian and Howe had proven.

 

“I don’t know what he’s talking about: he just jumped me for no reason while I was trying to mind my own business,” the other elf tried to protest but Zevran cut him off by pressing the dagger closer to his opponent’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood along the side of the other elf’s neck.

 

“Bullshit!” Zevran snapped coldly. “We both know you’re lying through your teeth, now why don’t you tell us all what you were really doing before I chop you into fish bait?”

 

“The blonde one’s right, I knew there was something off about this one!” the redhead tavern wench piped up, glaring at the elf suspiciously. When Conrí turned his gaze on her, the girl’s face blushed as red as her hair and she stammered “He - he said he was waiting for his brother, but that was nearly three weeks ago. And all that time, he kept bugging the castle guards, trying to get information about the arl and his condition...”

 

That was enough for Conrí; drawing his sword, he placed the blade to the elf’s throat and spoke in a voice little louder than a whisper, but resonant with menace, “This will be much easier if you simply tell us what you’re hiding...”

 

The elf paled with fright at the drawn sword held so close and swiftly he started whimpering “Alright, just-just don’t hurt me! This is more than I bargained for! Look, they just sent me to watch! Maybe they knew the arl would get sick, I don’t know! But they never said anything about monsters! I haven’t been able to report anything since this whole mess began! I’m stuck, same as you, I swear!”

 

“Who are they?” Conrí snapped. “Who hired you to do this?”

 

“A tall fellow,” the elf blabbered. “He said he was working for Howe; Arl Rendon Howe. He’s an important man, Teyrn Loghain’s right hand. So I didn’t do anything wrong!”

 

“You’re a spy, working in the service of a pair of traitors who’ve usurped power from the rightful king! I think your definition of doing wrong differs somewhat from mine,” the young Cousland sneered at his captive. “In fact… I have plans for you, little rat…”

 

“Well, what are we waiting for?” a familiar voice called from behind him; he looked round to see Leliana rejoining them. As she passed Murdock, the bard told the Mayor, “Owen says he’ll get to work on the militia’s gear right away, but he suggests you all hurry up about it!”

 

* * *

 

During Conrí and Erin’s little missions, Serena was leading her group up the hill towards Ser Perth. Once they reached the brow of the hill, Alistair took a moment to enjoy the view: the endless expanse of water below, the castle looming over them atop the plateau on which it sat and because the day was so clear, squinting into the distance, Alistair saw he could still make out a faint vertical line on the horizon; the distant Tower of the Fereldan Circle of Magi. The nearby windmill, a familiar sight from his childhood days, was still relatively intact, and once again Alistair allowed himself a brief moment of nostalgia. “Just like coming home… except with more undead,” he muttered to himself.

 

Alistair chanced a look behind him as he trudged up the hill: no sign of Conrí or Sten from their trip, or Leliana, her group and the dogs returning from their sojourn after the lost boy. Considering his companion’s fondness, or weakness depending on who one asked, for chivalry, he didn’t doubt his fellow Warden, just as he was sure Conrí wouldn’t be adverse to what they had promised the blacksmith to get him to work on the militia’s arms and armor. Even if he didn’t appreciate Alistair and Leliana making promises in his name, he very much doubted Conrí would willingly leave a young woman to die in that castle. ‘If she isn’t already’ a darker voice in the back of his mind muttered, considering the realistic chances they had of finding the blacksmith’s daughter alive after so long trapped in the castle. Still, he was more than happy to let Leliana tell his fellow Warden that particular task.

 

Alistair hung back from the quartet of knights, clad in finely forged suits of red-steel plate armor and armed with an assortment of weapons, talking quietly among themselves besides the great oak tree next to the windmill, waiting for them to finish their conversation before introducing himself, but to his surprise, one of the knights - a tall fellow with copper-colored hair and a Greatsword sheathed on his back, whom Alistair vaguely remembered as Ser Perth, waved him over, a surprised expression of relief on his face.

 

“By the Maker, is that you, Alistair? Andraste’s Blood, it is good to see you’re alive! Many of us who remembered you… well, we feared the worst when we heard about Ostagar.”

 

Alistair was amazed that Ser Perth had recognized him; when Isolde had Eamon pack him off to the Chantry, Ser Perth had still been Squire Perth, in the final years of his apprenticeship to one of the arl’s knights of the time. He’d hardly have expected the highest-ranking of the arl’s surviving knights to remember him, let alone so warmly. Still, he remembered the squire had been quite friendly towards him, not one to look down on him because of the damned rumors.

 

“It’s good to see you again, though I imagine this isn’t quite the homecoming you would’ve had in mind. Still, I’m as grateful as Bann Teagan is to see you and your friend here: with a pair of Grey Wardens aiding us, perhaps all is not lost.”

 

“We’ll see when tomorrow comes,” Alistair replied dryly. “Perhaps, if possible, you could tell me what ails Arl Eamon? All I’ve heard were rumors...” he asked nervously, fear gnawing at him regarding what he might hear.

 

“We were never certain. He thirsted for water, and then grew weaker and weaker. We brought in a mage but even that did nothing. The Arlessa believed he was cursed and that we needed the power of Andraste herself, or he would surely perish.”

 

“And so she sent you all chasing after a myth?” Serena asked.

 

“I’m not sure I would have put it like that, but yes. The Arl once funded the research of a scholar in Denerim; he had proof the Urn was in Ferelden, or so I am told. We knights volunteered to seek it out.” Ser Perth answered.

 

Alistair nodded; this was in keeping with his knowledge, gleaned from the years of teaching in the Chantry, of how Andraste’s surviving disciples had smuggled her remains out of Minrathous after her execution back to her homeland. But even given Arlessa Isolde’s great piety, Alistair doubted sending all of her lord’s knights in search of a long-lost relic. Surely there were easier ways to heal the arl of his sickness than chasing down legends?

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of heavy boots trekking up the hill. Looking round, Alistair and the others saw Erin, Tira and Blair, accompanied by Leliana, Kiba and Tsume, reaching the top of the hill. Tira looked very satisfied; carrying a sword Alistair swore she had not moments before, a curved viridium blade that looked to be of Dalish make, and the mark of what looked to be lips on her cheek. Erin, by contrast, looked very strange, as though she were torn between respect and extreme mirth for her fellow Warden.

 

“You find the kid, then?”

 

“Oh aye. His sister was very grateful; she offered me her grandfather’s sword, by way of a reward,” Tira replied, holding up her new weapon.

 

“Among other things,” Erin snickered.

 

Tira rolled her eyes “It was an innocent peck on the cheek. I did find her little brother and give her enough coin to reach her family in Denerim to repay her for such a fine weapon. It seemed like the easiest thing to say; I could hardly ask her for coin as a reward, could I?”

 

“Ah, greetings to you, Grey Warden. As I was saying to your compatriot, I am as relieved as Bann Teagan to see you here. I must admit, I do not know how to address a dwarf in your position. Is ‘My Lady’ sufficient?” Ser Perth asked, uncertain.

 

Serena nodded at this. “That would be proper; I am the daughter of a… Noble in Orzammar.”

 

“Very well, my lady. I am humbly at your service. I am Ser Perth, charged with defending the village against these evil assaults, though perhaps you are aware of this.”

 

“Ser Perth, have you considered using the oil in the village store?” Tristan asked as he came up the hill.

 

“Oil, you say?” Ser Perth, an eyebrow raised in surprised interest, questioned. “No one told me of this. How much, would you say?”

 

“Enough to set many monsters aflame,” Tristan nodded. 

 

“A fine tactic, provided it doesn’t backfire and we end up having to deal with flaming undead!” Morrigan snickered from behind him, but Ser Perth clearly liked the idea and, clicking his gauntleted fingers, sent two of his fellow knights running down the hill to recover the barrels. A few minutes later, they returned, each rolling a large wooden barrel up the slope, followed by Sten and Conrí who had spied the knights as they finished their own business. Once they reached their former position, the Warden, the two knights and the Qunari opened the barrels and began to liberally douse the path leading from the bridge across the lake to the castle to the windmill and down into the village. A single torch or flaming arrow would set the oil, and anything unlucky enough to be standing in it, ablaze at the right moment.

 

“Murdock says his militia is ready for battle, as am I. My companions and I will take our position here, and await the coming assault,” Conrí informed the knight beside him. Ser Perth took this news with a curt nod of the head.

 

“Very well, my lord,” Ser Perth answered. “Let us wait, and may the Maker watch over you.”

 

“May He watch over us all,” Conrí replied.

 

* * *

 

It was the last few moments before sunset. The motley band were mostly gathered around the windmill, along with Ser Perth and his knights, Dwyn and his hired thugs, and the miserable-looking elf spy, who clearly wished to be anywhere else. Conrí had divided the party into two groups; Alistair, Sten, Erin, Serena, Tira, Garik and the canines would fight with him on the ground, going hand-to-hand against the monsters, while Leliana, Blair, Zevran, Morrigan, Xolana and Wynne were perched on a balcony on the first level of the windmill, where they could rain down arrows and magical blasts relatively safe from attack by the enemy. Conrí had been surprised to discover the elf was quite a competent archer; of course, it was hard to argue when Zev’s demonstration of such skills was shooting an arrow into the ground a hairsbreadth from the Warden’s groin. Conrí had wanted to be annoyed, but he couldn’t; despite their somewhat rough start, the elf had proven he did have his uses - rooting out Loghain and Howe’s spy had raised him up in Conrí’s estimation - and so long as the elf remained true to his oath, and showed he had no loyalty to his former employers, he had nothing to fear from the Wardens.

 

An uneasy silence fell as all present waited for the inevitable to come. Alistair was stood beside the knights, all silently muttering prayers to the Maker.

 

“Here they come!” he heard Leliana shout from her perch atop the windmill, disrupting any further chance of conversation. For a moment, Conrí couldn’t see what she meant, but then he realized what the bard was talking about; emerging from the castle was a thick, pestilential green mist, cloying and sickly, and in the mist, he could see figures moving, shrieking wilding and running across the bridge from the castle, straight towards the village...

 

Conrí, Sten, the Wardens and the other defenders of Redcliffe took their positions at the foot of the slope. Tira drew her new sword, named ‘The Green Blade’ according to the words engraved on the curved viridium blade, and waited for the enemy to come close enough to put it to use.

 

‘Let the fun begin.’

 

The first of the walking dead appeared at the top of the hill leading down to the windmill, emerging from the mist like ghosts, and Alistair gagged in shock at the sight of them, not that he was alone in so doing. The sight of the undead in the Circle Tower had been horrifying, but at least they had been no more than walking skeletons. The undead sprinting down the hill towards them were somewhat more frightening in that, despite their horrifically butchered and maimed forms, there was still signs of individuality, traces of the people they had been in their clothing, appearance and possessions: the way an elven serving girl braided her hair, the scuff marks on a knight’s armor made by polishing, the fine brooch one of the arlessa’s maids used to fasten her dress. But looking into the eyes of those people racing down, one could see that any such individuality was gone from them. Whoever they had been, they were now just puppets of flesh and bone, dancing on the strings of whatever foul power had breathed life back into their corpses and stripped them of everything but the urge to kill.

 

Conrí allowed himself a reluctant sigh at what had to be done, but put it aside as he raised his sword. There was nothing that could be done. These people could not be saved; only put out of their misery. Killing these poor souls would be like amputating a gangrenous limb: painful, but unfortunately necessary.

 

“Light the fires,” he heard Ser Perth cry out, and a pair of flaming arrows from the windmill slammed into the oil-soaked ground, igniting it and setting the frontrunners of the pack ablaze. Horrific screams split the night air as the fire hungrily began to chew at oil-soaked flesh, but the undead kept coming, disregarding the flames eating them as the mindless urge to kill ingrained into them drove them on. As the first of the undead staggered out of the fire, the warriors were on them. Tira hacked the Green Blade down on the arm of a burning male elf, slicing it off at the elbow. The monster snarled angrily and swung out at her with a meat cleaver in its remaining hand, completely unhindered by its injury. Tira blocked the blade’s path to her head with her off hand sword, the crude iron axe unable to make a mark on the ironbark, and then slashed low; the Green Blade easily hacked through the flesh of the creature’s knee, weakened by necrosis and fire damage, sending the burning elf crashing to the grass. Before it could recover, the Green Blade came down, severing the undead elf’s head from its shoulders. Tira looked up in time to block the descending hack of a carving knife and took off the hand wielding it with her return blow. Before the creature - which from the look of it had been a pretty arlessa’s maid, her once-long blonde hair lank and matted and her throat half-torn out by a vicious bite - could do little more than hiss in pain, Tira spun on her heel, the Green Blade slicing into the already weakened flesh of the girl’s neck. The severed head fell to the ground, the wretched creature put out of its misery.

 

Looking round from his own battle, Conrí saw his companions were managing to hold their own: Zevran and Leliana were dropping undead from a distance, the creatures falling with arrows punching through the eyes or the brow into the brain. Sten was surrounded by a number of corpses, all severely mangled, limbs and heads cast about him like some twisted vision of a butcher’s shop. A slavering corpse that had once been a scullery maid threw itself at the Qunari, but Sten slashed his great axe through the monster’s midsection, and its bifurcated form collapsed, its torso landing a short distance from its legs. The creature continued to try and attack, snapping angrily at Sten’s ankles as it dragged itself by its hands across the ground, but Sten dodged back from the creature vainly biting at his feet and stamped on its head once, twice, thrice, smashing the fiend’s head to pulp with every blow.

 

Ser Perth and his knights were clearly well-versed in how to bring down the monsters; the previous skirmishes having taught them to bring down the undead. Alistair fought beside them, him and the knights using their shields to fend off the circle of clawing hands and blades around them. The knights fought back in tandem, one using his shield to smash one of the undead to its knees, the other taking off its head. Their attacks, coupled by arrows and magical attacks from above swiftly began to thin out the undead battling with the defenders at the base of the slope. As Conrí watched, a stream of magical ice rushed from Morrigan’s hands, turning a number of the creatures into frozen statues. Before the spell could wear off, Ser Perth and his knights smashed the frozen undead into smithereens.

 

A high-pitched scream from behind caught Conrí’s attention: a small group of the undead had gotten past Perth and his knights, and was trying to break down the door to the windmill. The scream had come from the captured elf spy; a trio of the undead-two elf serving girls and a cook- had set upon him. The fool’s attempt to defend himself had ended with his sword uselessly embedded in the gut of one of the elves, and the undead monsters tore the spy apart before he could draw his weapon free. Dwyn and his men hacked the monsters to pieces as they gorged themselves on the spy’s still-warm flesh, before turning their attention to those trying to hack down the windmill door to get at, Xolana, Wynne Morrigan, Leliana and Zevran.

 

Conrí made to join them, but before he could, he heard running footsteps behind him; he whirled round, sword raised, but the intruder was not another slavering walking corpse, but one of Murdock’s militia, the terror in his voice clear even muffled as it was by the full helm he wore.

 

“The monsters are attacking from the lake! They’re attacking the barricades; we need help!”

 

Stopping for only an instant to order Ser Perth and his men to hold their position, and commanding Erin, Tira, Serena, Garik, Alistair, Sten and Koun to follow him, Conrí took off at a run down the slope after the militiaman into the village, where the militia were gathered in front of the Chantry, desperately trying to prevent a seething throng of undead villagers from overrunning the meager wooden barricades and getting to the doors of the Chantry and the defenseless people inside. Looking closely, Conrí could see every one of the creatures hurling themselves at the barricades was soaking wet, as though they’d hauled themselves from the depths of Lake Calenhad, which in all honesty, they probably had. ‘But then how did they get from the castle to here? Unless… they jumped from the battlements?’

 

As one of the monsters saw him and the others approach and let loose a screech of feral hunger that alerted the rest of the pack, Conrí put the question to the back of his mind. They could unravel the mystery of how the undead had gotten from the castle after they were no longer trying to slaughter the villagers.

 

The creature that had roused the others - a burly man in tattered scraps of red-steel chainmail, missing its eyes, nose and most of its lower jaw, dragging a large maul behind it - staggered towards the approaching group, swinging its weapon with wide, scything motions that had the power to smash a man to pulp if they connected, but more often missed. Sten bellowed a challenge and made to counter the monster, ducking under the swing and slamming the pommel of his sword into the creature’s head. The monster recovered more quickly than expected, recoiling from a stab of Asala and moved to confront the Qunari. However, Sten’s distraction was sufficient to keep the hulking undead brute distracted, allowing Alistair and Conrí to join with the militia’s efforts.

 

A volley of arrows from the militia slashed into the undead like a swarm of hornets, dropping a few, but most were not even slowed by the missiles slamming into them. The creatures began to assail the barricades the militia had assembled in a semi-circle around the entrance of the Chantry. At least two dozen of the things were throwing themselves at the barricades. The militiamen were desperately fighting back, avoiding the grasping hands and stabbing blades and trying to make attacks of their own, but their own inexperience and fear of their unnatural enemy was hindering them just as much as the undead were hindered by their own decrepit bodies. The spectacle might have been amusing in a macabre way if it weren’t so dire. As Conrí watched, one militiaman staggered back, howling and clutching a deep cut in his arm, made by an undead serf’s knife, creating a gap in the defender’s line. The creature shrieked triumphantly and tried to get in among the defenders, but Conrí seized a hand axe that one of the creatures had discarded in its haste to try and get over the wooden fences and hurled it, splitting the undead man’s cranium into pieces. The militia closed ranks and the fighting continued, Asturian’s Might and the Cousland Claymore taking their fair share of heads. Garik even found time to jib Conrí for stealing his move. 

 

A scream from behind caught Tira’s attention; despite the best efforts of Murdock and his men to hold them off, a number of the monsters had gotten over the barricades to the right, knocking aside the men trying to hold them off and were hacking at the doors and windows of the Chantry, trying to find a way in. Tira looked round, but no one could move to stop them: the militia was overwhelmed trying to stop more from getting past their defenses. Sten was still locked in combat with his colossus of an opponent, ducking back from the brute’s maul, and the others had their own opponents to fight. With a weary sigh, Tira raced to the defense. ‘Looks like it’ll have to be me.’

 

Three opponents stood before him; two of the walking corpses who had once been men hacking at the barred doors of the Chantry with heavy axes in a futile effort to break down the doors. Both undead were so engrossed in their task, they didn’t realize the danger to them until it was too late; the first one fell when the Green Blade stabbed into the back of its head and emerged from the top of the skull. The second saw its ilk fall, but could do little more than scream before the sword’s next slice cleaved its skull into two pieces, the head severed raggedly above the jaw.

 

The final walking corpse, which from the looks of it had been a woman in her mid-forties, had had better luck, managing to smash one of the small windows by the door, and was now trying to grab at anyone she could reach inside. Screams of terror came from inside the building at the sight of the monstrosity trying to force its way in, along with Bann Teagan ordering everyone back away from the door, but one voice was not overcome by horror.

 

“Mother?” Tira heard a boy’s voice ask. Bevin?She thought.

 

The creature’s only response was to howl in deranged hunger, clawing wildly at the nearest victim, completely uncaring of the fact the victim was her son. Tira heard a girl scream that could only be Kaitlin, and reacted quickly; seizing the undead woman by the back of the ruined dress she wore, the Dalish Warden pulled the woman, screaming hatefully, away from the window and threw her to the floor, pinning the woman to the ground with her foot. Looking up, she could see Kaitlin and her brother at the window, the girl trying to pull her brother back even as she stared at the scene in mute horror.

 

“You don’t want to see this,” Tira told the girl, who nodded and covered her brother’s eyes as she turned her head away: they didn’t need to see him kill their mother, even undead as she was. A brief flare of pain cut through Tira as the undead woman managed to partially worm her way free and sank her teeth into the back of the elf’s leg; Tira gave a gasp of shocked pain, but wisely kept the living corpse pinned down. Before the ghoul snapping at her feet could pull herself free, Tira brought the curved sword down, easily carving through the woman’s neck and sending her head rolling away. Removing her foot from the decapitated corpse, gingerly feeling the back of her leg to see the damage the dead woman’s bite had done, Tira took a quick look of the battlefield.

 

The hulking undead soldier was down, his maul cut in two halfway along its length and his body decapitated. The soldier’s head lay in pieces on the blood-soaked ground, each piece closely resembling a crushed tomato. Sten was victorious, but the Qunari was in a bad way; his left arm was red with blood and the heavy chainmail armor covering the limb appeared crushed. The Qunari had been hit by the undead warrior’s maul, and judging from the blood and the unnatural angle at which his arm hung, the limb was clearly broken. Alistair had fared little better: Murdock was standing beside the former templar, a drawn sword ready, while another militiaman held a wet cloth to a wound at Alistair’s head, which looked to have been inflicted by a mace. Despite the injuries of his companions, the militia looked to be in good shape - a few minor injuries but nothing serious - and Koun seemed unharmed, the mabari lifting his head from the body of an undead manservant, having crushed the thing’s skull between his jaws, the corpse’s black ichor dripping from his fangs.

 

As Conrí took stock of the situation, he heard more running feet approaching. “Here they come again!” he roared as more ungainly human shapes began to approach.

 

What seemed like minutes, but was in truth hours, passed in the same interminable manner; the undead continued to emerge from the lake and charge at the barricades assembled, but with every new attack, their numbers decreased and the militia fell into a routine, loosing volleys of arrows that dropped a good number of the attackers, before blades finished them off. Conrí and Alistair hanged back, loosing arrows and crossbow bolts along with the militia, not wanting to chance further injury. Many of these undead monsters were in even worse condition; missing limbs and carrying deep wounds that hindered them, forcing the walking corpses to limp or even drag themselves into combat, only to be hacked down by the militia. A number of other attackers also stumbled down the hill, bearing the mark of Leliana and Zev’s arrows or the blades of Ser Perth and his knights; these creatures fell even more easily than those emerging from the dark waters.

 

Finally, after a night that seemed to have lasted forever, as the first signs of dawn began to crest the horizon, the first light of the sun beginning to appear above the top of the distant Frostbacks, the battle ended. The last of the walking corpses toppled, a well-placed arrow embedded between the eyes, and silence fell upon the village for a moment as the survivors scanned their immediate surroundings for any more undead. Then one man let loose a jubilant cry of victory, which the rest of the militia took up, overjoyed at their triumph. His companions seemed relieved, but as for Conrí, he stalked to a wooden post by the door of the Chantry and sank to the floor, too tired to move further. The cheering of victory continued, but exhausted beyond measure, Conrí Cousland was asleep long before they fell silent.

 

* * *

 

When Conrí woke, it was long after sunrise, and he was now inside the Chantry; someone must have dragged him inside. Nor was he alone: the rest of his companions were also present. Alistair was propped up against a wall beside him to the right; Koun was curled up at his master’s feet and Leliana had fallen asleep at some point with her head resting on Conrí’s shoulders. Wynne and Sten, however, were awake; the Qunari had removed his armor and the witch was tending to the wounds the undead had inflicted, closing up the minor wounds with healing magic. She had also managed to form a crude sling for Sten’s arm; the mage’s skill for healing, while great, had to allow at least some time to rest a serious injury. The dwarves were helping Owen with the forge, repairing armor and weapons just in case this attack was not the last. The trio of mages, Conrí learned, were gathering extra herbs. With the river and the lake, plenty grew in the area. Shale had wandered into the lake, looking to rinse the blood of the previous night off of itself. 

 

Zevran, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen, but there would be time enough to ponder the elf’s whereabouts later; a shadow fell over him and the others, diverting his attention. Looking up, Conrí saw it was Hannah, the Revered Mother of the Redcliffe Chantry. She gave him a warm smile. “Bann Teagan asks that you and your companions join him outside the Chantry as soon as you can; there is something he wishes to say to you.”

 

Gently shaking Alistair and Leliana awake and murmuring his thanks to the Revered Mother, Conrí relayed to his awaking companions what had been said. Alistair quickly got to his feet, smoothing his hair down, pulling his sword belt up more securely, while Leliana rearranged her armor and collected her weapons. For a moment, Conrí wondered if Sten should join them, but the Qunari clambered to his feet, showing no discomfort for his arm.

 

“I will come, if only because it will be an interruption to the Saarebas poking me for hours on end,” Sten muttered.

 

“Oh the gratitude!” Wynne sniped sarcastically. “Next time, I’ll wait for the gangrene to set in before I heal you, and see how you enjoy the pain!”

 

As the group approached the front doors, Conrí asked, “Has anyone seen Zev?”

 

“He did survive the battle,” Leliana replied. “When I last saw him, he’d gone with some of the militia to the tavern, helping themselves to whatever supplies of liquor were left while the tavern keeper is locked in his cellar. I imagine they’ve been drinking most of the morning.”

 

Conrí pulled open the doors of the Chantry as he took this information in, blinking in the bright sunlight that met them as the doors opened, only to be caught off guard by a sudden cheer that, in the early silence of the morning was near deafening. Looking round, Conrí saw to his amazement that what looked to be the entire surviving population of Redcliffe - militiamen, women young and old, children and Ser Perth and his fellow knights - were either cheering, clapping loudly or in the case of the knights, beating their swords on their shields.

 

“Dawn arrives, my friends, and all of us remain. We are victorious!” Bann Teagan cried out, eliciting another cheer from the villagers. Teagan allowed himself a small grin and then gestured to the new arrivals. “And it is these good folk you see beside me that we have to thank for our lives today. Without their heroism, surely we would all have perished.”

 

The crowd continued to cheer as Teagan turned his full attention to the group and inclined his head to Conrí. “I bow to you, good ser. The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour.” Conrí likewise gave a brisk nod of his head, but Teagan had already turned away, taking a cloth-wrapped bundle from Ser Perth. The bann opened it to reveal a steel helm of fine make, its visor and circumference adorned with engravings of war hounds and other Fereldan iconography, which he took in both hands and extended it to the Warden.

 

“Allow me to offer you this: the helm of Ser Ferris the Red, my great-uncle and hero of Ferelden. He would approve passing it to one so worthy.”

 

“Thank you, Bann Teagan. I am honored.” Conrí replied gratefully, gently taking the helm. His own heavy chain was still sufficient but Alistair would no doubt desire it for its weight and heritage.

 

“Take it, then, and use it in good health.”

 

Revered Mother Hannah came forward, addressing the gathering. The crowd calmed down to listen. “Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe. Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love.” Conrí intoned the traditional response, “So let it be,” along with the others, (Tira and the dwarves giving their own responses) though he felt little enthusiasm for it - after all, the Maker had hardly intervened in the chaos engulfing Ferelden so far - and then Bann Teagan spoke once more to the people of Redcliffe.

 

“With the Maker’s favor, the blow we delivered today is enough for me to enter the castle and seek your arl. Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able.” He looked over at his guests as the crowd began to disperse, speaking in an undertone. “Now, we’ve no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there.”

 

Ten minutes later, Conrí and the companions he had chosen - Leliana, Xolana, Erin, Tristan and Garik - were traipsing up the slope to the windmill. Conrí had flatly refused to let Sten go with them; with a broken arm, the Qunari would be of no use to anyone, so Conrí had had Sten sit with Wynne where his wounds could be better tended.

 

Zevran had offered to come, but the elf’s clearly inebriated state, not to mention the looks he and the tavern girl Bella were shooting at each other - along with her simple dress looking a little disheveled and hanging off one shoulder - made Conrí insist that the elf remain behind. Grinning from ear to ear, the elf had given a drunken Antivan toast, not that he was the first in the tavern. The militia had all tried to ply him with coin, free ale and other rewards, and the tavern girl Bella had also been quite friendly, though her idea of a hero’s welcome had been to throw her arms around his neck and try to pull his tongue out. He would never know what possessed him to offer the woman enough coin to get her to Denerim; maybe it was just a whim, maybe he wanted to help her better her life rather than languish in a tavern where her boss groped and paid her next to nothing, maybe to help her escape from the coming Blight, or simply another taste of her gratitude, but he still gave her the sovereigns. The approving nods of his companions were proof enough that he had done the right thing, though Leliana’s glower at the woman’s ‘gratitude’ was still boring into Conrí’s back as they headed up to the windmill.

 

Exiting the tavern, and stopping just long enough to refill their supplies with food and medical poultices, the quartet had quickly moved up the hill, Koun eagerly following at their heels, where Bann Teagan and the Arl’s knights stood beside the windmill, relatively undamaged by the night’s attack, staring up at the high battlements in the distance.

 

“Odd how quiet the castle looks from here. You’d almost think there was no one inside,” Bann Teagan muttered, half to himself, before ceasing his ruminations and turning his attention to the others. “But I should not delay things further. I had a plan… to enter the castle once the village was secure.” At the confused look on the faces of the Wardens and the women, Teagan continued, “There is a secret passage here in the mill, accessible only to my family.”

 

This knowledge did not surprise Conrí; like the Couslands, it made sense the Guerrins would have a secret escape passage from their castle for use in times of war and strife; such a thing had likely been built during the Orlesian occupation and the rebellion. What did annoy Conrí was the fact that Teagan had withheld that information from them; though he would not have stood by and let the undead destroy the village, a small party could have snuck in and liberated Arl Eamon from the castle. Conrí crossed his arms. “There are a reason you didn’t mention this before?”

 

Teagan contritely replied, “I knew you would choose to enter the castle instead of staying in the village… and we needed warriors. I’m sorry if I - Maker’s breath!” Teagan’s eyes widened at something behind Conrí. The Warden spun round to see, approaching them at a steady jog, a women in her thirties with slightly unkempt brown hair pulled into a bun and wearing a slightly tattered but still fine dress, a soldier of Redcliffe following at her heels. Koun growled at the approaching noblewoman, but she paid the mabari no heed.

 

“Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live!”

 

“Isolde!” Teagan replied, clearly overjoyed and astounded by his sister-in-law’s survival. “You’re alive? How did you - what has happened?”

 

“I do not have much time to explain! I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly.” Her face twisted into a rather curious expression as she looked at the other onlookers, clearly not wanting to speak in front of them. After a few moments, she was forced to overcome her reluctance and, trying to speak as quietly as possible, muttered “And I… need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone.”

 

“We will need more of an explanation than that, I think,” Conrí replied curtly; it was all very well and good for the Arlessa to show up and ask for help now the fighting and dying was done, but the fact she hadn’t given them any information about what was going on in the castle and yet wanted them all to risk their necks in a place where all manner of dangers lay in wait sat ill with the youth. She glowered at him with a look of condescending superiority, clearly appalled at the notion that one of inferior station had the audacity to speak to her without the proper respect.

 

“What? I… Who is this man, Teagan?” Alistair stepped forward at that point, looking as clearly unhappy to see her as she would likely be to see him.

 

Conrí scowled. “Maybe you’d recognize me better if you slapped me across the face.”

 

Isolde’s eyes widened then narrowed in disgust. She remembered that impudent glare all too well. 

 

Alistair stepped up. “You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?” he asked with a sigh. She stared blankly at him for a moment before his identity fell into place.

 

“Alistair?” The Arlessa spat his name like a curse; her expression only soured ever more, her dark brown eyes overflowing with disdain. “Of all the… why are you here?” Bann Teagan rested a calming hand on her arm.

 

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde, both Alistair and his companion, Conrí Cousland, son of the teyrn of Highever. I owe them my life,” he added sternly. The arlessa’s eyes went wide with shock as she realized the disrespect she was showing to her guests. She quickly curtsied and adopted a sweet smile that grated on Conrí’s nerves as much as her earlier bluntness.

 

“Pardon me, I… I would exchange pleasantries, but… considering the circumstances…”

 

“Please, Lady Isolde,” Alistair tried again. “We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!”

 

“I know you need more of an explanation,” she conceded, darting eyes betraying her discomfort, “But I… don’t know what is safe to tell.” She turned to Teagan once more. “Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think…” She glanced around, clearly uncomfortable about talking in the presence of anyone but her brother-in-law. “Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won’t flee the castle. He has seen so much death!” She grabbed the bann by the front of his jacket, tears starting to run down her face. “You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle, you could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!”

 

Conrí scratched his beard thoughtfully, uncertain what to make of all this. Her distress seems real, but still… there’s something she’s not saying.

 

“What of Arl Eamon? Is he still alive?” Alistair blurted out.

 

“He is. He is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker,” the Arlessa replied.

 

“Kept alive?” Teagan asked, clearly confused by her choice of phrase. “Kept alive by what?”

 

“Something that the mage unleashed. So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live,” she said, staring at the ground. “The others… were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village! It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help!” the Arlessa sobbed, the terror in her voice real.

 

“Tell us about this mage,” Conrí demanded.

 

“He is an infiltrator, I think - one of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill.”

 

“Eamon was poisoned?” gasped Teagan, horror-struck.

 

“He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s hired him! He may be lying, however - I cannot say”

 

Conrí took this in, thinking to himself. If a mage was involved, then he had a strong suspicion as to what this ‘thing’ the Arlessa seemed beholden to was...

 

“So why does Teagan have go alone?” asked Alistair, clearly uneasy at the thought. Conrí had to agree with his companion; if Arl Eamon and his son were indisposed, he was not comfortable with sending Teagan into the same danger; if all three of them were to perish, the Guerrin line would be destroyed, and any chance of getting help from Eamon or Teagan against Loghain and the Blight would die with them. As little as Conrí thought of Eamon, he would be more useful alive than dead.

 

“For Connor’s sake, I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan,” Isolde sobbed desperately. “Teagan, I know you could order your men to follow me when I return to the castle. I beg you not to, for Connor’s sake!”

 

“Am I the only one who gets the feeling she isn’t telling us everything?” Xolana suddenly accused dryly, her gem-like eyes narrowed suspiciously. The Arlessa whirled round to glare at the younger woman, the haughty disdain she had displayed earlier returning to her gaze.

 

“I- I beg your pardon!” She gasped through her tears, revolted by the mage’s audacity. “That’s a rather impertinent accusation!”

 

“Not if it’s true.” Conrí retorted. 

 

The Arlessa shook with outraged grief as she sobbed, “An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help! What more do you want from me? Teagan, I do not have much time! What if it thinks I am betraying it? It could kill Connor! Please come back with me - must I beg?”

 

“Could this evil she mentions be a demon?” Conrí asked of Xolana. 

 

The mage shrugged her shoulders. “We are too far from the castle for me to tell just how strong or weak the Veil is there,” she replied. “But such a creature would be a good culprit behind the mayhem here.”

 

“Demon?” Isolde whimpered, her eyes widening in terror. “Maker’s mercy! Could it truly be a demon?” Fresh tears began to stream down her cheeks and she turned her desperate pleas back to her brother-in law.

 

“I can’t let it hurt my Connor!” she sobbed. “You must come back with Teagan! PLEASE!”

 

Teagan gave a weary sigh, but spoke with a resolute determination “The king is dead, and with Cailan gone, we need my brother now more than ever. I will return to the castle with you, Isolde.”

 

“Oh, thank the Maker! Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!”

 

“This is a mistake,” Conrí asserted. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

 

“I cannot let Isolde return alone. Perhaps I can help Connor or Eamon. Perhaps this is really a trap, but this is my family. I must try. I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable. Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you.”

 

“Please do not take too long!” She said, wiping away her tears and beginning to walk away. “I will be by the bridge.” The moment she was out of earshot, Teagan began to speak hurriedly with the Wardens.

 

“Here’s what I propose: I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. Perhaps I will… distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?”

 

“What exactly are we supposed to do in there?”

 

“I wish I knew,” Teagan admitted, pushing his hair out of his eyes wearily. “I don’t know any more about this ‘evil force’ than Isolde seems to. Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance. If you can open the gates from within, they can move in and help you. I don’t think there’s anyone else who can help you. If you choose not to go, then it’s up to me to do what I can. Here is my signet ring. It will open the lock on the door in the mill.”

 

He pulled a gaudy gold ring, engraved with the Guerrin ‘G’ off his ring finger, and dropped it into Conrí’s palm. He quickly looked to make sure Isolde couldn’t hear, then whispered in a conspiratorial mutter. “Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else… we’re expendable.”

 

“I understand,” Conrí nodded.

 

“You are a good man. The Maker smiled on me indeed, when He sent you to Redcliffe.”

 

“So we’re just going to send him with that woman?” Leliana asked, clearly not pleased with such an idea. “It seems so dangerous...”

 

“I’ve no doubt it is, dear lady, but I can delay no further. Allow me to bid you farewell… and good luck.” Teagan inclined his head to them, clapping a hand on Alistair’s shoulder as he passed, and then began to trudge up the hill after the Arlessa.

 

Conrí watched them go for a moment for a moment before turning back to the windmill. The door swung open and they stepped into the mill’s interior. They quickly found, covered by straw and sacks, a simple stone trapdoor with a depression in it the same size and shape as the ring. Inserting the ring into the depression and twisting elicited a soft click; pulling the stone hatch up, Conrí looked down to see a stone staircase descending into darkness.

 

“Well,” Garik snarked. “I’m gonna guess this is one of those times when ‘Ladies first’ is not acceptable.” The dwarf was answered by three glares. “Thought not,” he sighed, drawing his daggers and making his way down the stairs.

 


	23. Innocence Lost

 

“So…” Garik muttered as the group made their way. “What was all that between you and the Orlesian broad, boss?”

 

Erin groaned. She had hoped this wouldn’t be mentioned. She still remembered that day with disgust. Conrí grimaced, obviously agreeing with his sister, but he spoke anyway. “I was about seventeen. Just got my first live steel blade, first set of armor, and still inexperienced in how to use them. I had just finished training that day, satisfied that the armor’s leather was softening with use, and I made my way to the stables to check on my horse. As it turned out, Highever Castle was due to play host to a few guests. The Arl of Redcliffe… and his wife.”  


 

_ [Flashback] _

 

Conrí stood in the stables, brushing out his bay stallion. As with everything his father had given him, upkeep was his responsibility. That included feed, watering and brushing the beast daily. Conrí didn’t mind. It gave him something to do after training and before his evening bath.

 

Footsteps outside the stable. Conrí turned to see a rather attractive woman headed towards the stable… or rather she would be attractive if she didn’t have an expression of arrogant superiority curling her lip. “You there, stable boy!” she barked in her thick Orlesian accent. “I demand my horses be fed, watered and brushed immediately.”

 

“My lady,” Conrí started calmly. “I am no stable boy.”

 

The blonde woman seemed on the edge of a seizure. “The insult! A mere knight squire was daring to speak to me! Do as I say, or I will see you flogged!”

 

Conrí was at the edge of my patience already, her arrogance and threats not endearing her to the young man in the least. But, he tried as hard as he could to remain polite. “My lady I am…” whatever Conrí was going to say was silenced when the blonde noblewoman stormed up to him and slapped him across the face, swearing the whole time in Orlesian. Conrí’s head snapped to the side and didn’t move from that position. His eyes however, swung back to the face of this woman who had the gall to lay a hand on him, his piercing blue eyes silencing her for the moment. The only thing that kept Conrí from bloodying his new sword on her was the fact that she was a guest in his father’s house. He slowly put down the brush and walked away, ignoring the woman’s renewed screams. 

 

After calming down for a while, Conrí headed to the main hall, regretting it immediately when he heard the blonde woman’s shrieks. “One of your servants dared disrespect me, Lord Cousland!” she wailed. “He must be disciplined!”

 

“My Lady Isolde,” Bryce sighed wearily. “As I have said multiple times, my stable hands have gone home for the eve. The only people who would be in the stables at the moment would be my knights or their squires. They are under no obligation to care for any horses but their own. Who was this young man? Could you describe him?”

 

Conrí decided to announce himself. “I believe she is referring to me,” he said, his eyes finding Isolde and his face neutral. “Father.”

 

Eamon, who had been standing silently next to his wife, immediately paled. He saw the angry red hand print on the young man’s face. Isolde had just slapped his host’s son across the face. His wife had paid the Couslands a dire insult; one Bryce could demand recompense in blood for and be well within his rights to do so. He had to say something.

 

As for the Teyrn, Bryce made his way silently over to his son before the Arl could utter a word. Taking the boy’s chin in his hand, Bryce examined the hand shaped bruise forming on his son’s face. By now it had swollen slightly and had to sting brutally. “Lady Isolde,” he said after a moment, his tone deadly serious. “Did you deign to lay your hands on my child?”

 

“I… I… Did not know the boy was your son…” Isolde stumbled.

  
“It does not matter,” Bryce growled. “Perhaps you treat your servants this way, but I will not allow you to treat any under my roof with such barbarism. Especially my son,” he added, his voice all but a snarl. “Eamon, you, your wife and I will retreat to my study where we will discuss this at length. Pup,” Conrí’s eyes immediately found his father’s. “Perhaps it would be best if you and your sister took your supper in your rooms for the night.”

 

Conrí nodded. “Yes, Father. I will let Erin know. Should I send for Fergus as well?” he added, hiding a smirk. Fergus was no doubt… busy at the moment. A newlywed man was unlikely to surface for anything as mundane as supper with the family. Since the wedding the previous week, the couple had been scarce. 

 

“Perhaps that is best, yes,” Bryce nodded with a similar smirk. “It may be wise to keep my new daughter-in-law safe from my guests.” Isolde sputtered indignantly. 

 

“As you wish, Father,” Conrí nodded and made for the door, not looking back at the almost white Arl and his bright pink wife. It served two functions; letting the arrogant pair know how little he thought of them and also hiding his evil grin.  


 

_[End Flashback]_  


 

“I learned later,” Conrí concluded. “That whatever Arl Eamon wanted to discuss was enough to anger my father even more. Enough to where he and Isolde were shown the door the next morning. Both have carried a grudge against me since. A mutual contempt as it were. Eamon tried to defend his wife, saying I was deliberately impudent when not under my father’s gaze.” Conrí snorted. “You can imagine how well that went.”  


“So there you have it, Alistair,” Erin sniped. “The first of many reasons Eamon is not on our Satinalia gift list.”

 

Alistair was speechless. He knew Isolde had a temper and was in no way popular among the castle servants but to strike the son of a Teyrn… even if she thought him a servant, Isolde was lucky Bryce Cousland was not known for striking out in anger. She very well could have lost her life for the insult.

 

What he couldn’t believe was Eamon defending his wife. Eamon of all people had to know this was a very serious offence. True, Eamon was known for caving all too easily to his wife’s unreasonable demands, but this....

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Conrí pushing open a door at the end of the tunnel, leading into the castle dungeons. “I locked myself in one of the cells, once. For an entire day. Ah, good times.”

 

“I got locked in a cell for an entire day once as well,” Garik snickered. “Not quite as fun.”

 

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me, Brosca,” Conrí chuckled. An all too familiar feral scream cut him off. It sounded like it was coming from the next room. Conrí drew his sword, which he had been holding by the scabbard to prevent an awkward draw in the narrow corridors, and slid the leather covered wood back into his belt. “Alistair and I’ll go first. Garik, Erin, you stay right behind me. Leliana, Tristan, Xolana, cover us.”

 

The elf scowled but nodded as the rest took their places. Conrí kicked in the door and charged in, butchering the undead alongside Alistair, Erin and Garik as Xolana and Tristan hung back with support and easy to target spells and Leliana picked off stragglers with her expert archery. Tristan did, however, get some slightly sadistic glee from catching Conrí in the blow back of a small fireball. Conrí sent him a warning glare as he cleaned his sword and sheathed it, but said nothing. 

 

“Hello?” came a voice very familiar to the pair of Circle Mages. “Is anyone alive out there?”

 

Xolana and Tristan locked eyes and stormed down the hallway, Xolana brushing past Conrí, who looked up in confusion. The mages marched to the last cell in the hall.

 

“Holy Maker, I didn’t expect to see you two again!” came the voice. The two mages looked at each other again and smiled evilly. Suddenly they lunged at the man in the cell, screaming obscenities and insults the entire time they tried to grab the shocked man through the bars. 

 

Conrí and Garik darted forward, each grabbing a screaming mage and holding them back. “Oi, Amell!” Conrí barked, having a hard time holding on to the squirming mage. “Calm the Void down or I’ll have to choke you out!”

 

“Let me go, Conrí!” Xolana shrieked. “This bastard got me three months in the dungeon and a one way ticket to the noose! Just because I was his friend! That’s Jowan!”

 

“Jowan?” Garik asked. “The blood mage who blew those idiot templars off their feet with one spell?” the dwarf would have said more if he hadn’t caught Tristan’s elbow to the nose. He shook his head, his nose already bleeding. “That’s it, elf boy!” Garik shifted his grip, one arm snaking under one of Tristan’s and wrapping around the back of his head and the other wrapping around Tristan’s neck. The dwarf dragged the Elf to the ground and put pressure on his windpipe. When Tristan’s face started turning blue, Erin stepped in.

 

“I think you made your point,” she said. Garik scowled and let Tristan go, shoving the elf to the side as he got up. 

 

Garik put a hand to his gushing nose. “Nug humping idiot mage,” he muttered, flicking the blood off his hand. 

 

While Garik was wrestling Tristan to the stone floor, Conrí had dropped Xolana, spun her around and grabbed her shoulders. “Xolana, you need to calm down!”

 

“Calm down?!” Xolana seized Conrí by the cuirass and tried to shake him. “They were going to kill me just because I happened to spend most of my life with that bastard and the elf! I turned to blood magic just to survive!”

 

Conrí grabbed the sides of her face. “Xolana, I get it, you’re angry. You have every right to be. But rip his head off later. We have bigger things to worry about right now. After… if you wanna kick his arse to Weisshaupt and back, I won’t say one word.” 

 

Xolana’s rapid breath slowly began to level out. “Alright,” she said after a long moment. “I can wait… I’m calm, Commander.”

 

“Good,” Conrí released the mage and turned back to her escape artist friend. “So. The blood mage who blew the Knight Commander off his feet. What in the Void are you doing here?”

 

Jowan uncovered his head, revealing a bleeding lip and a quickly blackening eye. Apparently his old friends had gotten a few shots in. “I uh… I’m the one who poisoned Arl Eamon…”

 

Tristan and Xolana who had been glaring daggers at Jowan, suddenly looked gob smacked. Conrí blinked several times. “Okay… why?”

 

Jowan sighed and got up, wiping his lip and using a mild ice spell to cool his hand and press to his wounded eye. “I was instructed to by Teyrn Loghain. I was told the Arl was a threat to the nation. In exchange he’d settle things with the Circle. As you probably know, I’m a maleficar. A blood mage.”

 

Conrí pinched the bridge of his nose as Alistair growled to himself. “Well, you’re about the most incompetent maleficar I’ve ever seen. You have that in your favor. So, Loghain hired you to poison Arl Eamon. Why in the Maker’s sanctified small clothes would Arlessa Banshee hire a mage on the run from the Circle?”

 

“Her son, Connor, had started to show signs of magic,” Jowan explained.

 

Alistair’s jaw dropped. “Connor? A mage? I can’t believe it…”

 

Conrí shook his head. “My opinion on the Circle is no secret but it’s generally the only place a mage can get any decent training. Why did Isolde take the risk of hiring someone to teach the boy in secret?”  


“Because Connor would be taken away,” Jowan continued. “Mages can’t hold titles, even the son of a powerful Arl. She’s also a pious woman. Having a mage for a son would be… embarrassing.”

 

“And Eamon had no idea his son was a mage?” Erin asked. 

 

“No, she was adamant he never find out,” Jowan shook his head. “She said he’d insist on doing the right thing, and that infuriated her.”

 

Tira shook her head. “This would never have been a problem among the Dalish… Magic is no curse…”

 

“So,” Jowan asked, his face grim. “What happens now?”

 

“As livid as I am with the man,” Tristan spoke from his place on the floor, having finally caught his breath. “Jowan could still be of use to us. If not, let the bastard go.”

 

“Hey, hey, now!” Alistair protested. “Let’s not forget he’s a blood mage! We can’t just… let a blood mage go!”

 

“Better to slay him?” Tira asked angrily. “Put him down for making a different choice?”

 

Xolana crossed her arms. “Is this Alistair the Grey Warden talking, or the Templar?”

 

“I say its common sense! We don’t even know the whole story.”

 

“He wishes to redeem himself,” Leliana spoke calmly. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

 

“Even blood mages, Alistair,” Erin sniped before the former Templar could protest further.

 

“Enough,” Conrí snapped before turning back to Jowan. “So. If I let you out, what will you do?”

 

“I’d try to save anyone left up there,” Jowan said immediately. “And after… well, I suppose I’ll get whatever it is people like me receive.”

 

“And were I to just let you go?” Conrí asked, ignoring Alistair’s indignant sputtering. 

 

“I’d stay and try and help, if I could.”

 

“That’s commendable if it’s true,” Conrí allowed.

 

“Thank you,” Jowan nodded.

 

“I’m letting you out,” Conrí decided. “Don’t try anything.”

 

“You’re letting me free? But… what do we do?”

 

“You come with me. Help, but don’t make things worse,” Conrí told him.

 

“I won’t. You have my word.”

 

“You might want to stand back,” Conrí advised. When Jowan scurried to the back of the cell, Conrí reared back and kicked the lock on the cell door, causing the bars to bend and the lock to snap. The door swung open, bending the hinges and slamming into the cage. “I’m assuming you don’t need a staff.”

 

“No, I’ve gotten used to casting without one,” Jowan told the large man. 

 

“Good. Xolana, keep an eye on him,” Conrí commanded. 

 

“Don’t worry, Commander,” Xolana hissed. “I plan on it.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later found the group standing in the courtyard of Castle Redcliffe, watching the portcullis rise. The upper levels of the castle had been even more nightmarish; the castle chapel, the barracks, the armory, the kitchens, the servants’ quarters; all overrun by walking corpses who had once been the vassals of the house. Arl Eamon’s personal complement of mabari war hounds had gone feral and rabid after so long trapped inside with nothing but the flesh of the dead to feed on. Shades and wraiths, twisted spirits of the Fade, hungry for the life force of mortals, prowled about; many foes lingered within the castle that refused to die until they’d been hacked to pieces. When all this is over Arl Eamon may need the Grand Cleric to give this place an exorcism! Erin half-joked to herself, trying to distract herself from the fear that they were only going to find corpses as far as the Arl, his brother and his wife were concerned.

 

For all of Alistair’s fear, Jowan had not given them reason to distrust him any further; he’d even proven his worth when they’d heard a scream coming from one of the larders and gone to investigate only to find a girl in the garb of an Arlessa’s maid trapped in a corner, being menaced by two of the walking dead. The mage managed to cadge a lyrium potion from Xolana and put it to use, conjuring a cone of frost that paralyzed the undead long enough for the others to destroy them. The girl turned out to be Valena, the blacksmith’s daughter they’d been asked to find. Her relief at being alive only doubled when she learned that the village, and in particular her father Owen, were still alive and there was a way out of the castle to safety. Conrí sent Koun with her, the girl more willing to risk the tunnel through the dungeons with the protection of a mabari.

 

Before she departed, Valena directed them to a door through the kitchens that could lead them into the great hall, where she said she’d heard raised voices coming from. The door, unfortunately, turned out to be locked and barricaded from the other side; by very powerful magic as Xolana concluded, thus necessitating a detour through the castle’s cellars and into the courtyard, trying to allow Ser Perth and his men, who were standing beside the gatehouse, entry while holding off a revenant and its skeletal cohorts emerging from the castle grounds. However, the portcullis, clearly in need of repair, was slow to ascend, preventing the knights from moving to assist until after the undead were destroyed.

 

The portcullis completed its ascent and Ser Perth and his fellow knights stepped into the courtyard, their leader hailing the Wardens and their companions as the two parties met. “It’s good you opened the gates; my men and I are anxious to see our Arl again. Shall we enter the hall together? It must be taken and held if we are to regain control of the castle,” Ser Perth questioned. With a nod from Conrí, the knights began to advance into the castle, the Wardens and their companions following behind.

 

Pushing open the castle’s main doors, the companions and the knights quickly followed Ser Perth’s lead into the main hall through a door directly ahead. The group entered the main hall and Conrí covered his nose and mouth with a choke of disgust, as did many of the others; several of Eamon’s knights covered their faces, and Xolana and Leliana wrinkled their noses in disdain: the ever-present stench of rotting flesh that hung within the interior of the castle was overpowering here. But the stench was nowhere near as disturbing as the strange spectacle at the far end of the hall. On the other side of the room, Isolde stood cowering, silent tears running down her cheeks, next to a boy of about ten or eleven that could only be her son, Connor. And before them, Bann Teagan was prancing around, cart-wheeling and back-flipping like a jongleur, a moronic grin plastered on his features. All around the chamber stood a number of the Arl’s surviving men-at-arms, their eyes glazed and unseeing, still and emotionless as statues as the intruders made their way to stand before the dais at the room’s end.

 

The boy looked away from his uncle’s impression of a jester to observe the interlopers and Conrí felt a chill run down his spine. There was something wrong in Connor’s eyes that set his nerves on edge; a predatory scrutiny that was observing him, looking for weakness. A malevolent grimace contorted the boy’s lips, a scowl of annoyance at the intrusion as the group stopped before him and looked up at Isolde, who was silently weeping. With a wave of the boy’s hand, Teagan stopped his antics and sank to the floor by his nephew’s side.

 

“So these are our visitors?” Connor growled in a voice far rougher and deeper than anything a boy of his age should sound like. There was also a rasping echo to his words, as though two voices were speaking simultaneously.

 

“Y-yes, Connor,” Isolde was saying between sobs, clearly terrified of her own child.

 

“And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?” Connor pointed a claw-like hand in accusation at Conrí, his blue eyes narrowed. “And now it’s staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can’t see it well enough.” Isolde looked almost apologetically at the Wardens before she responded, her eyes downcast to the floor.

 

“This… this is just a man, Connor. Like your father…”

 

“Oh, I’m tired of hearing about him!” the boy, or whatever he had become, rasped in a voice that was more a reptilian hiss. “Besides, he’s nothing at all like Father. Look at him! Breathing and not dying in the slightest! I could change that, mind you,” he added as a malevolent afterthought, still glaring angrily at the intruders.

 

“C-Connor, I beg you, don’t hurt anyone!” Isolde pleaded, dropping to her knees and seizing her son’s hand in desperate entreaty. The boy turned his cold gaze on her, and then blinked. As he opened his eyes, Conrí saw the malevolent look in the boy’s gaze fade away, and something human returned to those bright blue eyes, wide with fright and confusion.

 

“M-Mother?” he asked uncertainly, “What… what’s happening? Where am I?”

 

“Oh, thank the Maker!” Isolde cried, joyfully enfolding her son in her arms “Connor! Connor, can you hear me?” Suddenly, the boy blinked again, and when his eyes reopened, the foul gleam in them had returned. With an angry snarl, Connor struck his mother a vicious blow, sending her sprawling to the floor.

 

“Get away from me, fool woman! You are beginning to bore me!” he bellowed at her, the Arlessa clutching the vivid red handprint on her cheek, her face slack with horror.

 

“Maker’s Breath! What has happened here?” Ser Perth demanded the uneasy fear in his voice clear.

 

Isolde unsteadily got back to her feet, clutching her slapped cheek. She turned to the Wardens again, face soaked with tears.

 

“Grey Warden,” she pleaded to Conrí. “Please don’t hurt my son! He’s not responsible for what he does!”

 

“He is the evil force you spoke of?” Conrí asked incredulously, feeling more sick and astonished than ever. Alistair and Leliana gave him questioning looks at the accusation, but Conrí ignored them, trying not to collapse or vomit, because both seemed apt reactions to this insanity. 

 

“No!” Isolde screamed piteously. “Don’t say that!”

 

“So the boy has become an abomination and sundered the Veil?” Xolana asked rhetorically, her expression caught between disgusted and angry.

 

“C-Connor didn’t mean to do this!” Isolde insisted, trying vainly to staunch her tears. “I-It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon - he started all of this! H-he summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!”

 

“And made a deal with the demon to do so? Foolish boy,” the mage sighed, shaking her head ruefully. Conrí could understand her logic; every day of Xolana’s life back in the Circle had been lived with warnings of how trying to cut deals with demons never worked out well.

 

“It was a fair deal!” the possessed Connor snarled, fists clenched. “Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!”

 

“Nobody tells him what to do!” echoed Bann Teagan loudly. “Nobody! Ha-ha!” 

 

Connor’s eyes narrowed maliciously, before the boy darted forward and dealt his uncle a hefty clout round the back of the head, who was sent sprawling, the same moronic grin plastered on his features. “Quiet, uncle. I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn’t I? Yes, I did.” The baleful glare of the entity staring from behind Connor’s eyes turned back to Conrí. “But let’s keep things civil. This man will have the audience he seeks. Tell us… what have you come here for?”

 

“We need to see Arl Eamon,” Conrí replied, hoping his response would not provoke an aggressive response from the possessed child; Surely it can’t find fault with that, not after all the trouble it’s gone to saving the man’s life? he thought hopefully. 

 

“So you’re a concerned well-wisher. Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? All this sneaking around and killing is so unnecessary! But…” Connor sighed, followed by a malevolent snicker “…Father is so very ill. We really shouldn’t disturb him. Isn’t that right, Mother?” His attention suddenly returned to Isolde, who jumped with fright at being addressed again.

 

“I… I don’t think…”

 

“Of course you don’t!” the abomination snapped dismissively. “Ever since you sent the knights away, you do nothing but deprive me of my fun. Frankly, it’s getting dull. I crave excitement! And action!” he exclaimed, clawing at the air with outstretched hands and a terrible enthusiasm. “This man spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, and now he’ll repay me!” With that, the boy bolted for a nearby door. As he ran, Xolana shot an arcane bolt of magic at him in the hope of stopping Connor before he escaped, but she missed; the abomination gave an all-too human scream and ran for its life out of the room.

 

But Connor’s scream seemed to have been a command for the guards to attack; coming to their senses, the soldiers around the room drew their swords and leapt to the attack, as did Bann Teagan. “Don’t kill them!” Alistair yelled as he, the others and Eamon’s knights drew their own weapons. Conrí didn’t know if anyone had heard him until he saw Ser Perth and his fellow knights were using their shields and the pommels and flats of their blades to subdue the men-at-arms. Leliana, likewise, used her daggers to inflict crippling, but non-lethal wounds to the guards, severing hamstrings and tendons, while Xolana and Tristan conjured more ice magic to freeze and paralyze any that tried to attack them and Garik used the knuckle guards of his daggers to add extra damage to his punches. By contrast, Isolde cowered in a corner, whimpering in fright, while Jowan, who’d been trying to stay out of sight the moment they entered the great hall, had disappeared into a side room and shut himself in the second violence erupted.

 

Not that I expected any different, Tira thought as she blocked the blow of a mindless guard with her short sword, before deciding to deal with the mage afterwards, as she slammed the pommel of the Green Blade into the man’s forehead, resulting in near-immediate concussion. A second blow completed the transition to unconsciousness.

 

The man toppled to the floor, and Conrí saw all the other guards were also down, either unconscious or feebly clutching at crippling wounds. The only combatants remaining were Alistair and Bann Teagan, their blades locked as each tried to overcome the other.

 

“Come on, Teagan!” Alistair cried desperately, blocking a second blow with his shield, unwilling to fight back for fear of hurting the other man. “Come to your senses!” There was no response from the Bann, other than to increase the speed and ferocity of his blows; however, the Bann had his back turned to the others, and Conrí took advantage of this to slam the pommel of his Greatsword into the back of Teagan’s head. Teagan hit the floor with a loud thud, limp as a rag doll. Isolde gave a scream of horror and ran to her brother-in-law’s side.

 

“Maker’s Blood! Is he-?” Alistair blurted, dreading the answer. Conrí dropped beside Bann Teagan and put a hand to the man’s neck. Instantly, he could feel a pulse, strong and steady. “He’s alright,” said Conrí, and Alistair and Isolde both let out sighs of relief. Bann Teagan gave a weary groan as he came to his senses, groggily shaking his head and rubbing the back of it where he’d been struck; there would be a fine lump there by tomorrow. Isolde held out a hand for the man to help himself to his feet, fretting all the while.

 

“Teagan! Teagan, are you alright?”

 

“I am… better now, I think. My mind is my own again.” He rubbed the spot on his head the blow had landed, and then gave orders for Ser Perth and his knights to move the defeated guards into another room and lock them in for safety, until they could be certain the men were once again in their right minds.

 

“Blessed Andraste! I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!” Isolde murmured, eyes downcast, before desperately turning her attention to the Wardens. “Please! Connor’s not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!”

 

“You knew about this all along,” Conrí accused quietly: the Arlessa’s idiot ambition and refusal to own up to her mistakes had caused this, caused all the death and horror that plagued the surrounding land.

 

“I… yes. I didn’t tell you because I believed we could help him. I still do,” Isolde reluctantly confessed.

 

“I am sorry, my lady,” Jowan surprised everybody by saying, stepping out from the side room where he had been cowering in. “But Connor has become an abomination. He’s no longer your son.” The Arlessa’s face contorted with rage, and Jowan cowered away as she pointed a condemning finger at him.

 

“YOU! You did this to Connor!”

 

“I didn’t! I didn’t summon any demon, I told you!” Jowan defended himself, trying to duck behind Tristan, who grabbed him by his bloodied robes and pulled him back into view. “Please, if you’ll let me help-”

 

“Help?” Isolde shrieked like a banshee, her pretty face a mask of venomous hatred. Her hands clenched into fists and Teagan wisely moved his sword out of the Arlessa’s reach, lest she try to draw it on the mage. “You betrayed me! I took you in when no one else would! I sheltered you from the Circle! I brought you here to help my son and in return you poisoned my husband!” Teagan frowned, and his gaze switched rapidly between his sister-in-law and Jowan.

 

“This is the mage you spoke of? Didn’t you say he was in the dungeon?”

 

“He was. I assumed the creatures had killed him by now. He must have been set free,” she spat, directing a withering look at Conrí. The youth evenly held her gaze, refusing to look away.

 

Conrí snorted. “He’s no more to blame than you are, Arlessa,” he spat.

 

“How dare you?!” sneered Isolde. “If this man hadn’t poisoned my husband, none of this would have happened!”

 

“Your secrecy made his actions possible, Isolde,” Teagan interjected in a rather cold tone of voice.

 

“But I…” Isolde’s anger faded into shock, astounded by Teagan speaking against her.

 

“I know… what you must think of me, my lady,” Jowan continued, bowing his head and clasping his hands behind his back. “I took advantage of your fear. I am sorry. I… never knew it would come to this.”

 

“Well,” Teagan sighed “I shan’t turn away his help. Not yet. And if Connor is truly an abomination…”

 

“He is not always the demon you saw!” Isolde protested, disliking the way the conversation was going. “Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!”

 

“Isn’t that what started this?” asked Teagan, exasperated. “You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret… to protect him.”

 

“If they discovered Connor had magic, then they’d take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then…”

 

“So you had no idea the mage you took in to tutor him was an assassin?” Conrí cut across her whimpering protests.

 

“No, I trusted Loghain. Why wouldn’t I? How could I have known the mage he sent would be a murderer?” she asked.

 

“Aside from the fact he never bothers to hide the fact he holds anything remotely connected to your homeland in contempt? The implications he murdered your nephew by marriage?” Erin snapped, shaking her head at Isolde’s foolishness. Surely she should have suspected something was amiss when Loghain, a man whose hatred for anything remotely Orlesian was legendary, had come to Isolde, offering her the one thing she wanted more than anything?

 

It seemed Teagan was of the same mind as Erin. “And Eamon knew nothing of your plan? Isolde, do you not realize what you’ve done?”

 

A portion of Isolde’s earlier stubbornness returned to her as she angrily retorted “Eamon would only demand we do the right thing! I was not going to lose my son! Not to… to magic!” she spat, making the word a curse.

 

“And now you may lose him anyway!” Conrí snarled. “And so much more!”

 

“No… no please!” Isolde stammered. 

 

“And so you brought doom to us all, and death to your own son!” Teagan angrily snapped. Isolde’s face blanched white with terror as she shook her head, desperately pleading “NO! There must be another way! There must be some way we can save him!”

 

“Where did Connor go?” Leliana questioned. “Why did the boy run?”

 

“I think he ran upstairs, to the family quarters,” Teagan supplied.

 

“Violence… scares him” Isolde added. “I know that sounds strange. He may have run upstairs to his room, or...”

 

“He might be lying in wait?” Garik tentatively offered.

 

“I don’t know. The fighting may have scared Connor into coming out, and so he ran,” said Isolde.

 

“So you’re saying he may be vulnerable?” Teagan asked, a grim finality in his words.

 

“Perhaps,” Isolde agreed reluctantly, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. “Is-is there no other way?”

 

“Where is my brother? Where is Eamon?” Teagan asked, cutting her off. Conrí and the others paid close attention at this, fearing that they would hear the Arl was dead, and with him, any chance of aid against Loghain.

 

“Upstairs, in his room. I think the demon has been keeping him alive,” she said, crying again.

 

“So,” postulated the Bann, pushing his hair behind his ear, “if we destroy the demon, then…?”

 

“Then my husband may perish, yes.”

 

“What are our options?” Conrí asked. 

 

Alistair cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child, but… he’s an abomination. I’m not sure there’s any choice,” he said, clearly loathing himself for his response, particularly at the pitiful expression on Isolde’s face.

 

“We can’t kill a young boy, demon or no demon! Please tell me we’re not considering this!” Leliana angrily interjected.

 

Teagan spoke up, his face sorrowful but determined. “Connor is my nephew, but...” he paused, with a sad look at the boy’s mother. “He is also possessed by a demon. Death would be… merciful.”

 

“There is… another option,” Jowan spoke up again, nervously shifting from foot to foot. “Though I… loathe offering it. A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, without hurting Connor himself.”

 

“What do you mean? Is the demon not within Connor?” asked the Bann. Jowan shook his head.

 

“Not physically. The demon approached Connor in the Fade while he dreamt, and controls him from there. We can use the connection between them to find the demon.”

 

“You can enter the Fade, then? And kill the demon without hurting my boy?” Isolde asked, her tears stopping and a hopeful light entering her eyes.

 

“No, but I can enable another mage to do so. It normally requires lyrium and several mages, but I have… blood magic.” Immediately, Alistair took a step away, a grimace of distaste on his face. Seeing the Bann and Arlessa’s uncomprehending expressions, Jowan quickly launched into an explanation. “Lyrium provides the power for the ritual. But I can take that power from someone’s life energy. This ritual requires a lot of it, however. All of it, in fact,” he finished softly.

 

“So… someone must die? Someone must be sacrificed?” asked Teagan, quietly horrified.

 

“Yes, and then we send another mage into the Fade. I can’t enter because I’m doing the ritual. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” he discredited himself, stepping down. “It’s… not much of an option…”

 

Xolana crossed her arms. “It’s something to consider,” she said, though her tone suggested it was not something she wanted to think about at length. Alistair, however didn’t hear this. 

 

“Of course you would be okay with this!” he snarled. 

 

Xolana bristled. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, Alistair! But if it comes down to killing a child or sacrificing his idiot of a mother--”

 

“Just because you don’t like doesn’t mean--”

 

“Enough!” Conrí roared. The arguing pair immediately clammed up. “So I gather you are against Jowan’s suggestion, Alistair.” The former templar nodded. “Very well. Go upstairs and kill the boy.”

 

Alistair blanched as Conrí approached him, drawing his belt knife and holding it out to the former templar. The young nobleman’s eyes were like chips of ice colder than the tundra south of the Korcari Wilds. “I… I….”

 

“Not so easy now, is it?” Conrí hissed. “To throw a life away when it’s someone you know? You seemed quite content in sentencing the mages in the Circle to the sword. Children, some of them Connor’s age or younger. No, they were all abominations or dead in your eyes. So, you suggested the easy route. Wholesale slaughter. Yet I chose the hard route. To save as many as possible. Now we have mages to fight the darkspawn instead of lyrium addled simpletons. But besides that, innocents were spared,” Conrí sheathed his knife. “So next time you decide to question one of my orders, think long and hard of where we would be if you were in charge. The whining, the picking fights, the high-and-mighty attitude stops now.” Conrí turned to Jowan. “So. A life for life. A blood magic spell to save the boy. This is what you’re suggesting?”

 

Jowan nodded. “The energy has to come from somewhere. If we had mounds of Lyrium laying about… but we don’t. So the power must come from blood.”

 

“Let it be my blood. I will be the sacrifice,” Isolde volunteered out of nowhere, catching them all off guard. Teagan was the first to regain his capacity for speech.

 

“What?” Teagan blurted, staring at her in disbelief. “Isolde, are you mad? Eamon would never allow this!”

 

“Either someone kills my son to destroy that thing inside him or I give my life so my son can live. To me, the answer is clear.”

 

“Blood magic,” Alistair spat distastefully. “How can more evil be of any help here? Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

 

“Connor is blameless in this,” Isolde went on, entreating to them all. “He should not have to pay the price.”

 

Teagan gave a sigh of exasperation, and then reluctantly turned to Conrí. “It… it’s up to you, my friend. You know more about such things than I do, and it’s your companion going into the Fade. The decision is yours.”

 

“Are you truly prepared to give up your life, Lady Isolde?” Conrí asked.

 

“If there is even a chance to save my son, then I am,” she replied resolutely.

 

“You are willing to trust this young mage?” Teagan asked incredulously. “He poisoned Eamon, and for all we know, he could take your life power and attack!” 

 

But Isolde merely placed a placating hand on his arm and solemnly answered, “He would be a fool to try. No, I am willing to take him at his word. I will give my life to undo what I have done.”

 

“Is there no other alternative?” Erin asked. She had been shaken by her brother’s icy tone and suggestion that Alistair kill the boy, but now she understood. Still, as much as she disliked Isolde (perhaps the understatement of the decade), a life for a life didn’t sit well with her.

 

“The power has to come from somewhere,” Jowan repeated. “Either Lyrium… Or blood.”

 

“You can find Lyrium and more mages at the Circle,” Alistair suggested hopefully. 

 

“And they owe me,” Conrí added. 

 

“That is an excellent point,” Garik chuckled. “Pulled those shiny bastards out the lava sink, boss. I’d say they can make up for it.” 

 

Conrí glanced around, seeing no objections. “I’ll head to Kinloch hold. Are there any boats I can use to get across the lake?”

 

“A ferry should be there,” Teagan nodded. 

 

Conrí nodded back and headed for the door. “The rest of you, stay here. And get the others up here. If Connor starts acting up, use Jowan’s idea. That doesn’t work…” Conrí turned to stare at Alistair. “Alistair, you will do it.”

 

Alistair paled again but nodded and Conrí swept from the hall. 

 

* * *

 

Three days passed before the ferry returned to Redcliffe. Conrí climbed off, scowling. Greagoir had refused to allow the mages out without Templar escort. That wasn’t what had Conrí angry. 

 

The Knight-Commander had insisted on Cullen being one of the Templars. 

 

This is not going to go smoothly. Conrí brooded. I will put him down if he tries anything…

 

The Castle wasn’t billowing smoke, so that was a good sign. Murdock didn’t mention any new walking dead. Maybe Conrí had gotten somewhat lucky this time. 

 

When he returned to the castle proper, Conrí was confronted with a choice. Who to send into the Fade. 

 

He sighed. “I hate asking this,” he said finally. “But Xolana, would you mind being the one sent into the Fade?”

 

Xolana bit her lip nervously for a moment, considering that she was the only viable choice to be sent, then let out a slight breath she didn't realize she was holding and nodded. “I'll do it,” she said. “But I warn you it sounds... complicated. I don't know how long I will be in there for.”

 

“I trust you,” Conrí assured the nervous mage. “We'll look after you while you're wandering the Fade. Make sure our...” Conrí sent a glare at Cullen. “Guests... don't decide to interfere.”

 

“So we've got the lyrium, we've got the Circle, I know the mission...”Xolana removed a couple of items from her belt that she would not be able to use in the Fade anyway as she spoke and handed them to Tristan for temporary safe keeping. “...did I miss anything, or do you want to start?”

 

“We are ready when you are my dear,” Irving told her.

 

“Conrí?” Xolana asked.

 

“You can do this, Xolana,” Conrí nodded.

 

Xolana nodded back and headed over to Irving and the other mages he’d brought to start.

 

“Are you sure about sending her, Lieutenant?” Alistair asked uneasily. “Given her...”he glanced over at the mages and templars and lowered his voice. “Past?”

 

Xolana’s temper flared. “After all the time we spent travelling together you are STILL holding that over my head!?!?!” she shout-whispered.

 

Wynne spoke in a reprimanding tone. “Now, Xolana, you always knew it was a bad idea and I still don't approve either...”

 

“Enough!” Conrí barked. “Alistair, you are in the worst possible position to be questioning anything I say! And Wynne, mages in glass houses shouldn't throw fireballs.”

 

Wynne’s expression soured. She’d collapsed on the way to Redcliffe, and later revealed she’d bonded to a spirit from the Fade. Conrí, cautious as he was, didn’t fully trust the spirit, fearing it was a demon hiding its true nature.

 

Xolana was furious. “Besides I'm the only choice for this! Morrigan and Tristan won’t enter the Fade for this person we don't even know, especially not under watch of Templars and the Circle. And Wynne, you know as well as I do that you don't have the strength right now. Plus, if the demon does try to seduce me, what exactly is it going to offer me!? Power? I can already rip it to shreds with little more than a cut to my pinky and a quick gesture of the hand, what additional boons could it possibly try to corrupt me with!?”

 

“And you, Alistair!” Xolana continued, keeping her voice as low as possible. “You've travelled with me. You've seen how I fight and how I keep my powers under wraps. How many times exactly have I used my blood magic? Tell me!? In all the fights we've had!? Have I ever turned on you!? Gotten carried away by rage or blood lust? Tell me you wimpy templar bitch!” her voice had risen to a shout by now.

 

“XOLANA!” Conrí roared.

 

Xolana stared Alistair down in anger a few more moments but then turned around and walked away a few steps to collect herself again. “...once I've calmed down I'll be ready to enter the Fade. Assuming there are no more contentions.”

 

Conrí glared at Alistair and Wynne. “I'm sure there won't be.”

 

Xolana eventually just nodded at Conrí and headed back to Irving, ready to start. “Be careful, my girl,” Irving advised. “A demon of desire is no small opponent.”

 

Xolana’s eyes softened a bit but still only sent a nod his way before she sat down. “Let's do this,” she said finally.

 

Irving and mages did their hokey ritual and Xolana found herself plopped into the Fade. After gaining her bearings, Xolana wandered around a bit, getting attacked by shades and whatnot before she came across a grey haired man shouting for his son.

 

Xolana approached the man carefully, unsure if this was an important memory keeping Connor locked in the Fade or one of the Demon's machinations, or even just an artifact of the Fade at work. “Sir, please calm down! Can I help you?”

 

The man turned to look at the mage, desperation in his eyes and voice. “Have seen my son?! I hear him, but I can't find him in this blasted fog.”

 

Xolana realized this must be Arl Eamon as she came closer, while remaining cautious. “Arl? Arl Eamon? I'm looking for your son, too. How did you lose him?”

 

“I'm... not sure,” Eamon admitted. “I suddenly found myself here... who are you?”

 

“I'm...” Xolana stopped herself. “I'm here to help. I... can't really say much more than that. There's a demon at work, and names and information have power.” 

 

Her attention turned inward. Best case scenario: this really is the Arl's weak spirit and I can help him. Worst case scenario... this lures the demon out.

 

“Yes... I trust you,” Eamon said slowly. “Find my son, I beg of you. I keep getting turned around in this damn fog.”

 

Xolana nodded to him but moved on. Short of killing his dream self there seemed to be little she could do for him at the moment.

 

Xolana found herself in fights with a few more demons before she came across Connor.

 

“Who are you?” the boy demanded, trying to sound intimidating. “Are you the one making Father ill? Tell me, now!”

 

Xolana was relieved to have finally found Connor. “Connor... no, please, calm down. I am not doing anything to your father. In fact, I met him earlier while looking for you. He's very worried... I promised to help.”

 

Connor’s voice took on an all too familiar double tone. “No! You're lying! Trespasser! I will drive you out!” Connor thrashed briefly before falling to his knees, his body beginning to elongate and change. His hair was slowly being replaced by purple spectral fire and a pair of horn began to grow from his head.

 

Xolana took a cautious step back and was ready to grab her staff at a moment’s notice. First, though, she tried to resolve this without risking damage to the young boy. “Connor please, you're stronger than this! You have to believe me, it's that demon that's hurting your father, not me! Help me get rid of it!”

 

But when the boy looked up again it was in the form of Desire Demon. The creature smirked. “Get rid of me?” she asked. “One little mageling?

 

Xolana’s face fell and she pulled out her staff. “Let. The boy. Go,” she hissed. “You don't want to underestimate this ‘mageling.’”

 

The demon smirked again and disappeared in a flash of light.

 

“What the...” Xolana glanced around the area carefully, already on edge. But there was no sign of the demon and the portal behind her reactivated. “Crap...” Xolana muttered. “Luring me in deeper...” she carefully advanced.

 

Connor was not far from the portal she emerged from, back in his true form. “Why do you keep hurting me?!”

 

“Connor you have to believe me,” Xolana implored. “I have done nothing except for trying to help free you from the demon since I got here.”

 

“NO! You don't belong here! I WILL DRIVE YOU OUT!”

 

“Connor don't do this!” Xolana cried. “That's the demon talking! LET ME HELP YOU!”

 

But Connor wasn’t listening. He shifted again and vanished. Xolana was starting to get nervous, mumbling to herself. “This is taking too long... it's pulling me too deep into the Fade... I have to end this on the next encounter...” The portal opened once again. Xolana took a deep breath and went through what she hoped would be the last portal. When she emerged, she found herself standing in a small corridor leading to a circular area. In the center stood the demon she was hunting. The blood mage approached cautiously. “Finally you show yourself, demon.”  


“Indeed. No more illusions. You see my true form and stand in my domain. It is here I am most...” the demon caressed her admittedly alluring body. “Powerful. And yet I have no desire to engage your power. Perhaps... we could converse?”

 

Xolana’s eyes narrowed. “You have nothing I want, demon. Leave the boy in peace and leave the mortal plane.”

 

“Are you quite certain?” the demon asked as she approached. “There are many things I could...” the creature stroked Xolana’s face. “Provide you with.”

 

Xolana voice wavered slightly, uncertain. “...Provide...?”

 

“Power, affection...” the demon smiled seductively. “Perhaps a pleasure you've never experienced.”

 

True to her earlier words, power did not tempt Xolana. However... “Affection...?” she breathed huskily. “Pleasure?”

 

“Hm,” the demon chuckled, a clawed hand ghosting across Xolana’s breast. “You have gone too long without the feeling of another, haven't you...”

 

Something nagged at the back of Xolana’s mind... something trying to convince her that what she was contemplating was wrong, and yet she didn’t resist. The internal struggle made her whimper slightly.

 

“Well...” the demon murmured, pressing herself closer to Xolana and caressing the sexually starved mage. “I could be convinced, lover...”

 

Curiosity and desire began to get the better of Xolana and she brought her hands to the demon’s hips, toying at the shapes her bones made and stroking across exposed bits of skin... if you can call it that. “Convinced...? What do you want from me...?”

 

The demon smiled. “One soul I already have, so you have no worries. I leave the boy... for now. But I keep the contract. And one day, I may return... in exchange...” the demon lowered her lips to Xolana’s ear and nibbled gently. “Whatever you desire is yours.”

 

Xolana released a desperate, husky breath and was about to agree when something made her stop. Something about souls, and contracts... “No... NO!” Xolana, horrified, regained her wits and released a burst of my magical energy to force the demon off, staff in hand and finally ready to fight.

 

The demon stumbled slightly, shaking her head in disappointment. “A shame... I guess I must destroy you then...”

 

“This is the end of you demon!” 

 

* * *

 

Xolana finally landed the finishing blow. “Who's ‘just one little mageling’ now, huh?” she snapped before shuddering involuntarily as she remembered how close she was to the demon and that she almost gave in. “By the Maker, I will need to ask Wynne for a purifying spell or I will never feel clean again...” she mumbled as she was drawn from the Fade.

 

Xolana slowly woke up in her physical body again, looking a bit dazed from spending so long in the Fade. Her first sight was both darkly amusing and terrifying at the same time. Conrí had Cullen by the throat a few feet off the ground. “Lay a hand on her,” he growled. “And I will rip your spine out and use it to clean my privy, templar!”

 

“She's possessed!” Cullen insisted. “In the thrall of the demon! Or she's working with it! Maker curse you Warden for interfering with my duty...”

 

Xolana, still somewhat dazed, started scrambling backwards in fear, eyes wide and wild as she stared at Cullen, trying desperately to understand what happened while she was in her trance. 

 

Conrí looked over at her when he heard her frantic movements. “Finally back with us, eh?”

 

“She's possessed! Or working with the creature!” Cullen repeated, clawing at Conrí’s gauntleted hand.

 

Xolana, coming back to reality quickly now, stammered out, “I'm not possessed! I killed the demon, it is GONE! Connor should wake up as soon as he regains his strength, and the Arl as well!”

 

Tristan came over to kneel next to his old friend and stared intensely into her eyes for a few moments before putting a protective arm in front of her and snarling at Cullen. “I believe her, don't you DARE touch her.”

 

Morrigan mumbled irritably off in the background. “How do they not see that she is clearly not possessed, even if there was a struggle...”

 

“So sorry, Templar,” Conrí sneered. “I'm more inclined to trust my Wardens than a half psychotic lyrium addict.” He tossed Cullen aside before approaching Xolana. “You alright, Amell?”

 

Xolana nodded hesitantly and gulped. “...what happened out here? Why was he going to... KILL me?”

 

Conrí snorted scornfully. “He thought you were taking too long. That you must have failed. Or were working with the demon.”

 

Xolana, now back in control of herself, began getting angry. “It took so long because I was trying to be careful and not just rush headlong into a trap! Even so the demon kept dragging me deeper and deeper into the Fade until I was in the heart of its realm!”

 

Conrí nodded calmly. “Surana and Wynne thought it was something like that.”

 

Xolana huffed and looked away. “Besides I told you the demon has nothing,” she said forcefully. “To tempt me with,” she continued in a mumble to herself. “Even if it was a desire demon...”

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow but simply said, “Aye. Good to hear.”

 

Connor chose that moment to come into the room, rubbing his eyes. “Mother?” he asked blearily before he was enveloped in his mother’s arms, the woman sobbing happily much to the boys confusion.

 

Xolana let out a relieved breath. “I told you,” she said waspishly.

 

Conrí stood up and crossed his arms. “Well, now that we're quite sure neither Amell nor the boy are possessed, why don't you show yourself to the door, Cullen?”

 

Cullen grit his teeth as he stood. “First Enchanter, I demand you assist me in bringing the apostates back to the tower!”

 

“We are not apostates!” Xolana snapped immediately. “We are Wardens!”

 

“She is right, Cullen,” Irving wheezed. “Warden Mages are not considered apostates.”

 

“The Knight Commander will hear of this old man,” Cullen muttered darkly, storming out.

 

“Indeed he will,” Irving snapped. “And from you second. I will not rest until Kinloch Hold sees the back of you, boy! If I have my way, the best post you’ll see is that snake den Kirkwall!” 

 

Xolana threw a very grateful look Irving's way.

 

“Thank you First Enchanter,” Conrí rumbled. “I hope you are not needed before we march on the darkspawn.”

 

Irving nodded. “We will return to the tower. I hope Greagoir can straighten the boy out. If not… well, better he is far away from the mages.”

 

“And keep him away from us while he's at it,” Xolana mumbled.

 

“Agreed,” Irving sighed as he and his people turned to follow Cullen.

 

“Amell, are you alright?” Conrí asked. “You look a mite pale.”

 

“I'm alright,” Xolana shook her head. “Just drained and... perhaps a bit shocked by finding that I almost died in the Fade, and not because the demon overpowered me.”

 

Conrí grimaced. “Leliana, would you mind giving me a hand helping Xolana up to her room?”

 

Leliana smiled gently. “Of course.”

 

Xolana let the pair help her and remained silent until she was completely sure no one else was in earshot, at which point the panic from previously when she realized Cullen was about to kill her finally bubbled out. “You know Cullen wasn't that far off the truth…”

 

“Hm?” Conrí mumbled, pulled from his own thoughts.

 

“The demon she...” Xolana swallowed hard. “She knew exactly what I wanted and it was so tempting and I almost gave in and I can't believe I was so weak-willed and oh Maker what would have happened if I hadn't caught hold of my senses and…” Xolana trailed off into a nervous, uncontrolled babbling.

 

Leliana looked at the mage in concern, “And what exactly did the demon offer you?”

 

“She offered power,” Xolana continued to babble. “But she realized quickly that wasn't going to work so she tried a different approach and Maker I'm just an open book aren't I just some desperate stupid little thing and of course she had to be a desire demon and dive straight in for the kill and how can I be so stupid and predictable and weak-willed.......” she finally paused for a breath of air. “...maybe Cullen is right. Maybe I am too dangerous, too easily swayed by demons.”

 

Conrí was silent for a long moment before he drawled, “So... this demon almost convinced you into doing something you'd never do... because you needed to get laid?”

 

Xolana stared at Conrí for a stumped moment and then start laughing, humorlessly at first and then practically hysterically. “Could this possibly sound any more stupid?” she laughed.

 

Leliana covered her eyes with one hand. “Well, at least she wasn't tempted by power.”

 

“I... have GOT to be... the WORST Warden - well, Warden recruit - in the history of shitty Wardens,” Xolana cackled before calming down on the near insane laughter again, but not daring to meet either of their eyes.

 

“You know what the solution to this problem is, right?” Conrí snickered, his sly side starting to peek through.

 

“Maybe Wynne knows some sort of mind purifying spells that will remove perversion...” Xolana mumbled.

 

Conrí smirked. “You need to get laid.”

 

“You think I don't realize that?” Xolana cried. “And don't smirk at me like that, don't act like I am not aware of the jokes around the campfire. I'm pretty sure Alistair has made ‘as desperate as Xolana’ his catchphrase by now. You realize in the Tevinter Imperium they had a word for people like me? ‘Nymphomaniac,’ they called it. They treated it as a mental quirk; treatable in severe cases, indulgeable in less extreme ones... not like a laughable, destructive character trait.”

 

“I'm no ignorant stable boy, Xolana,” Conrí scoffed. “I know what the term is. You are the indulgeable kind. To a reasonable extent, of course. So, these are your orders; get some sleep. When you can actually function, find someone willing who meets your standards and get this outta your system.”

 

Xolana sighed and groaned out, “Yes, commander…”

 

Leliana, struck by the oddly humorous situation, began to giggle. “Ask Zevran. I'd imagine he'd be more than willing.”

 

Xolana gave her a curious look. “I thought you lot didn't trust him, and now you want me to sleep with him?”

 

Conrí crossed his arms again. “I'm still keeping an eye on him, but after his showing before and during the undead assault... I think we can afford a little trust. Just… sleep with a dagger under your pillow.”

 

Xolana thought about that for a moment and then just fell back onto the bed with a groan and an arm covering her face so her companions couldn't see her begin to blush. “I'll think about it... like you said, after some sleep.”

 

Conrí chuckled and motioned for Leliana to follow him. “Get some sleep, Amell. You have a lot of frustration to... exercise.” He closed the door, hearing Xolana’s embarrassed groaning sob.

 

Leliana put a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling. “I know I shouldn’t be laughing,” she said after getting herself back under control. “But the sheer oddness of the situation.” 

 

Conrí shook his head. “It worked out, so we can laugh about it. I will admit it is nice to turn things around on her once in awhile. But, I am going to take a page from Xolana’s book. I didn’t sleep much the past few days so I’m going to catch up on my rest. We’ll stay tonight and tomorrow and set out the next day.”

 

Leliana nodded, relived to finally have a respite from travelling and fighting. “I will retire to my room as well. Shall I have someone wake you for breakfast tomorrow?”

 

“Please do,” Conrí smiled. “I have a feeling I’ll be famished.”

 

Leliana giggled again. “What else is new, Warden?”

 


	24. Redcliffe Restored and the Nature of the Beast

 

“And so, it is over.”

 

Teagan ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath of relief. “Connor is his old self again. He does not appear to remember anything, which can only be called a blessing. I suppose the family will have to send the lad to the Circle of Magi for training, once the war is over,” he finished with a soft smile as Connor warily poked his head around the door, realized the occupants of the room were talking about him and quickly scampered away. 

 

Once the mages were gone, the Wardens had joined Teagan and Isolde on a brief excursion to the village the next morning to assure the people of Redcliffe that any further threat to their lives was ended and the night-time attacks had been ended for good. They’d stayed behind briefly to attend the funeral services Revered Mother Hannah conducted, then returned to the castle to discuss their next course of action, at Teagan’s direction.

 

“It’s still so strange to think of the lad as a mage, of all things,” Teagan continued. “Eamon will have much to mourn and rebuild, but at least he can be thankful his wife and son are safe.”

 

“I owe you my deepest thanks,” Isolde added, grateful tears brimming in her eyes as she curtsied. “I… I can scarcely believe Connor is the boy he once was.”

 

The young man decided to refrain from scoffing. “Thank you, Arlessa, but with respect, it is not just me you should be thanking. All of my companions played their part,” Conrí replied with a particularly meaningful look at Alistair. Before Isolde could reply to this, Teagan cut in.

 

“There’s still the matter of Jowan. His poisoning Eamon began this whole mess, yet he still lives. I must decide what becomes of him. It is my opinion that we should hold him for Eamon to decide his fate; if Eamon does not recover, Jowan’s fate is sealed. What say you?”

 

Conrí crossed his arms. “With respect, I don’t think that is up to you. Or Eamon for that matter. The mage could be useful. Keep him alive for now.”

 

“Very well. I will have the mage imprisoned again, for now. But back to the matter at hand,” Teagan remarked with a wary glance at the disheveled figure on the bed behind him. “Whatever the demon did to my brother, it appears to have spared his life, but Eamon remains comatose; we cannot wake him.” 

 

“The Urn! The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!” Isolde blurted out.

 

“The Urn is a myth,” Conrí replied bluntly. “It may never be found.”

 

‘Nor do we have the time to find it’ he thought to himself; time was swiftly running out. Word had already come from the south that darkspawn had been sighted moving past Lothering, into the Bannorn, putting to the sword any farmstead, village or hamlet in their path. Loghain wasn’t doing anything about the threat, deciding the rebellious Bannorn was more important, and there was still the matter of the treaties with Orzammar and the Dalish elves to be dealt with. But such thoughts were put to one side as Teagan cleared his throat to get their attention.

 

“That may be true, but there’s a reason it’s still an option; we’re not simply grasping at straws,” Teagan replied fairly.

 

“My husband funded the research of a scholar in Denerim; a Brother Genitivi. He’d been studying the inscriptions on Andraste’s Birth Rock. When Eamon fell ill, I sent the knights in search of him, but,” the Arlessa’s face fell. “They were unable to locate Genitivi. Out of desperation, I sent the knights in search of the brother or any clue as to the Urn’s location.”

 

“And you would have me follow in their footsteps?” Conrí asked incredulously. “What about the darkspawn? I still have my duty as a Grey Warden to fulfill...”

 

“Eamon is well-respected and popular; he can pull Ferelden together. If you wish to fight the darkspawn, you will need him!”

 

Conrí let out another exasperated sigh; it was happening a lot lately. However much he might not like it, Teagan was right. Eamon would be of great help in dragging Loghain off his perch; admittedly, he was a noble, but he didn’t know how many of the Landsmeet would believe whatever accusations of treachery Howe had fabricated against the Couslands, and it would be useful to have the support of the head of a noble family as powerful as the Guerrins, one so powerfully and closely linked to the late king. Conrí reluctantly nodded; as much as it made Conrí stomach roil in disgust, the Grey Wardens needed Eamon. At least, for the moment.

 

“Very well, I will see if I can find this relic. But it will have to wait. In the grand scheme of things, what happened here may well have only wasted valuable time. I need to make use of the treaties. All I have is your word, Teagan, and the word of Alistair that Eamon will help us. I need more than the word of two men. Considering our… history, your brother may be more of an obstacle than an asset.”

 

Teagan nodded. He’d learned of Eamon and Isolde’s despicable actions against this young man years ago, so he understood Conrí’s reluctance to trust in anything having to do with Eamon. “No one else could find it, my friend. Even if I wished to, I cannot leave Redcliffe to its own devices. Go to Denerim when you have the time; perhaps at the brother’s home, you may find some clue as to where he or the Urn might be.”

 

“Very well, we’ll set out in the morning,” Conrí replied fairly, and Teagan took his leave, heading for the main hall. Isolde followed him shortly after, after wringing the hands of everyone of the group, and even making a small gesture that could be considered an attempt at a respectful curtsey towards Conrí and Alistair before leaving the room. The companions dispersed; some, like Morrigan and Wynne, to their quarters to rest, or downstairs to the mess hall, to satisfy their hunger. As Conrí made to join them, he came upon a rather curious sight; Xolana Amell, staring out of a window facing east. “You alright, Amell?”

 

“Hm?” Xolana turned to her commanding officer. “Oh, yes. I was just… thinking. About Marian and the others. They should have arrived in Kirkwall by now. I know I said nothing had changed… but I still worry.”

 

“You shouldn’t,” Conrí chuckled. “If I gauged Marian Hawke and her siblings correctly, I’d give it a year or two before they have Hightown in their back pocket.”

 

Xolana smiled softly. “You may be right. May I ask you something?”

 

“I believe you just did,” Conrí smirked. 

 

Xolana scowled slightly. “You know what I mean. I’ve noticed Alistair and Wynne have been rather stubbornly avoiding you since I got back from the Fade. Any particular reason behind that?”

 

Conrí scowled as well and crossed his arms. “I made it clear I was done dealing with the snide comments and lectures from either of them.”

 

_ [Flashback] _

 

Xolana slumped to the floor as the mages completed the ritual. Irving checked on her before nodding to Conrí. “She’s in the Fade. Now, we wait and pray she can destroy the demon.”

 

Conrí sighed before scowling and turning to Alistair and Wynne. “Proud of yourselves, are you?” he snapped. “As if we don’t have enough to deal with, you two have to pick fights with Xolana at every turn.”

 

“Blood magic is forbidden for a reason, Conrí,” Wynne told him firmly. “While your trust in her is admirable, I fear it is misplaced.”

 

“You know as well as I do that Duncan would never have recruited her after what she did in the tower,” Alistair added. 

 

Conrí scoffed. “You really are a simpleton, Alistair. First, it no longer matters what Duncan would have done. In case you haven’t noticed, most of our comrades are dead. Second, Duncan’s own past would make him a hypocrite to take the moral high ground when it comes to Xolana. And finally; I won’t repeat myself again. Xolana is a Warden Recruit. What she did before no. Longer. Matters,” Conrí turned to Wynne. “Wynne, the only reason I’ve let you come with so far is because you’re a healer. And we needed one. You’re dangerously close to becoming more trouble than you’re worth. If you don’t like how I do things or the people I bring along, then go back to the tower. Alistair has no option to leave. You do. Make up your mind. Just because you’re used to those younger than you hanging on to every word you say means nothing right now. I’ve been put in charge. I honestly don’t care if you like it. That is none of my concern. What is my concern is that there is no infighting. This is a Blight. Blood magic can be useful against the darkspawn. Grey Wardens make use of any and every tool available. And frankly, you have no room to talk. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the Chantry’s stance on mages working with spirits. Go. I don’t feel like dealing with either of you at the moment. I have enough on my plate with the Templar stooge Greagoir insisted I bring.”

 

_ [End Flashback] _

 

“So, yes,” Conrí finished. “They are avoiding me. I’m starting to think I need to beat some sense in Alistair. If we didn’t need a healer so badly, Wynne would be joining her fellows on the way back to the Circle. I’m sick of both of their attitudes. Both complain constantly about Morrigan. So she’s an apostate. So what? Didn’t hear them say a cross word to Marian or Bethany.”

 

Xolana shook her head. “I’m sorry to cause this kind of trouble…”

 

Conrí grunted. “You’re not the one picking the fights, Amell. You have every right to defend yourself. And so long as the blood magic stays aimed at the darkspawn, you won’t hear a word about it from me.”

 

Xolana smiled. “Thanks, Conrí.”

 

Conrí’s sly smirk reemerged. “So. I take your afternoon with Zevran was… productive?”

 

“Jealous?” Xolana snickered.

 

“Please,” Conrí snorted. “Even if I did lean that way, I’d break that Antivan in half.”

 

“I think he’d take that as a challenge, Commander,” Xolana snarked, her snickering blooming into outright laughter.

 

“Tell him to keep it to himself,” Conrí advised. “He flirts with everything with a pulse anyway. Last thing I need is him having me put my sovereigns where my mouth is.”

 

“Don’t worry. This stays between me and you, Conrí,” Xolana smirked.

 

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, the group was back on the road. Alistair and Wynne continued to avoid contact with Conrí whenever they could, even going so far as to try to convince Erin of her brother’s mistakes. Erin was having none of it, standing firmly with her brother. “You made your beds. Now you have to lay in them,” she said coolly.

 

The journey to the Brecilian forest was fairly tense. Tristan and Xolana, while angry with their old friend, were not happy when they were forced to leave Jowan in the care of the Guerrins. While Xolana understood that Conrí’s hands were tied, Tristan grew even more bitter. His ‘accidents’ continued to grow in frequency, driving Conrí to the point of desiring to beat the elf half to death. 

 

More tension was sown when, as they near the Brecilian forest, Conrí noticed Alistair eyeing his sister with something close to infatuation. The two had barely spoken, but Conrí decided to speak to him anyway. Alistair might not be his favorite person at the moment, but a broken heart was exactly what he didn’t need.

 

“You're wasting your time, you know,” Conrí told the former templar.

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Alistair said stiffly. 

 

“Sure you don't,” Conrí rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ve seen the way you've been watching her and I figured I’d save you some trouble. She isn't interested.”

 

“And she told you this?” Alistair asked defensively.

 

“No, but she didn't have to,” Conrí grunted. “You're not her type.”

 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Alistair demanded, obviously thinking it was because of his templar background. 

 

Conrí sighed. “You know how she's turned Zevran down several times?”

 

“Yeeessss?” Alistair dragged out, not seeing the point.

 

“Her exact words were, ‘You're missing all the fun parts,’” Conrí explained.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Wow. You are as thick as a brick,” Conrí groaned. “Put it this way. Both you and Zevran have that in common.”

 

“What?!” Alistair cried, offended. “How could I have anything in common with the assassin?!”

 

“Easy. You're both male.”

 

“We're both..... huh?” Alistair’s jaw dropped. “You mean she.....?”

 

“Is into women and women only? Yes.”

 

“Oh,” Alistair mumbled. He frowned after a long moment. “You know, you could just be telling me this to keep me away from your sister.”

 

“Alistair, if I was trying to keep you away from my sister,” Conrí smirked evilly. “I’d threaten to break your legs.”

 

Xolana, overhearing the conversation, was almost dancing with glee. I still have a chance! She thought.

 

“Amell, do you have to use the bushes?” Conrí asked, smirk still firmly in place.

 

“Nope!” Xolana smiled brightly.

 

“Then why are you twitching?”

 

“Trying to restrain myself from laughing at the poor fish right there, perhaps?” she said, pointing at Alistair who was gaping and trying to catch his breath from his sputtering answer to Conrí’s statement.

 

“Don't laugh at the mentally challenged, Amell,” Conrí mock-scolded. “It's not nice.”

 

“Hey!” Alistair called, wounded, leaving Xolana nearly pissing herself.

 

“Seriously Amell,” Conrí chuckled. “If you have to go, go. You don't need to ask permission.”

 

Xolana was actually getting to the point of losing bladder control with laughter. She trotted off into the forest whilst giggling hysterically, hand clamped firmly over her mouth, and just nodding to show that was what she was off to do.

 

“Why does everyone pick on me?” Alistair sulked.

 

“At least Xolana has the courtesy to leave before laughing at you,” Blair pointed out, but Alistair merely grumbled.

 

“While Amell is on her potty break and Alistair is pouting, the rest of you set up camp,” Conrí ordered, his bark much more amused than normal.“This is as good a place as any.”

 

* * *

 

“Am I the only one who finds it ironic that you're the only one who doesn't pick on me much?” Alistair asked Xolana as she came back from her trip to the bushes. The camp was set up and the sun was quickly setting behind the trees.

 

Xolana was honestly surprised he would ask her such a thing. “I'm sure they only do it because they care,” Xolana stammered.

 

“Really?” Alistair droned. “Morrigan cares about me. Are you feeling alright?”

 

“...well, perhaps not Morrigan,” Xolana admitted sheepishly. “You know, I feel like I probably should not offer you this advice, but perhaps you'd find yourself in the crossfire less if you made less of a target of yourself.”

 

“Huh? What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you do seem to enjoy trundling about obliviously and then sticking your nose into topics you are missing relevant information for, so...” Xolana sighed. “I will not lie to you, your comments do make for great comedy at times.”

 

“Such as?” Alistair crossed his arms.

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow at him. “Like... just now? Your conversation with Conrí?”

 

“What?” Alistair sulked. “How was I supposed to know Erin preferred women?”

 

Xolana sighed. “Have you ever seen her stare at Zevran's delectable ass? Or any male's, for that matter?”

 

“Well, no, but.... Oh....” realization dawned over Alistair’s face. “So that's why she seems to be watching Tira so often…”

 

Xolana raised her hands to the sky as Erin paled then blushed brilliantly. “Praise the Maker, he noticed!”

 

“That was a bit uncalled for....” Alistair pouted.

 

Serena snorted. “Hardly.”

 

“I was never very subtle about it, Alistair,” Erin mumbled, her face still red.

 

“If she stares any harder, I think my skirts will catch fire,” Tira snickered, causing Erin’s cheeks to match her brother’s hair.

 

“Don't worry, I'll be there to rip them off you,” Xolana winked at the Dalish Ranger.

 

“I appreciate the thought, Xolana,” Tira smirked. “But I don't know if I’d be comfortable with you ripping me down to my small clothes. It might give you... ideas.”

 

“Ideas? ME? Never!” Xolana’s scandalized tone was belied by her patented smirk.

 

“See, I’d like to believe that, but it’s hard when I catch you watching me change so frequently,” Tira rolled her eyes.

 

“Do me as a favor and take it as a compliment, will you?” Xolana smiled before turning to a tomato red Alistair. “And you... learn.”

 

“Learn what?” Alistair asked, his voice a higher pitch than normal. “How to spy on my female comrades?”

 

“No, how to not be such a target. Turning beet red doesn't help.”

 

“Not something I can control to be perfectly honest,” Alistair grumbled, the color fading from his cheeks.

 

“I repeat: learn,” Xolana insisted.

 

“Remember Amell. The poor lad was raised in the Chantry,” Conrí chuckled.

 

“Like that's an excuse, I was in the blasted tower!” Xolana exclaimed.

 

“As much as I cringe at defending a templar,” Tristan snickered. “To be fair, Amell, we didn't get divided up by gender. And our clothes made it much easier when we did get the chance,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

 

Xolana huffed. “I suppose you have a point there. Well, you're never too old to learn, though!”

 

“Uh... fair enough,” Alistair gulped.

 

“Promise you'll try? Please?” Xolana put on a flirty smirk and tone of voice. “For me?”

 

“Uh, uh... Sure?” Alistair’s voice rose even higher in pitch than before

 

“No harm in trying,” Xolana sighed.

 

“Please don't break him again,” Conrí snarked. “He's useful. Sometimes.”

 

Xolana pouted. “I'm pretty sure I'm trying to make him more useful.”

 

“More useful in your bed, maybe,” Conrí smirked.

 

“Hey, I'm trying to help him,” Xolana said defensively. “That doesn't mean I'm going there.”

 

“But you would not object?” Leliana teased.

 

“Well I don't know, I realize I seem desperate but...” Xolana said hesitantly. “He IS a templar and all...”she clearly cringed.

 

“How many times must I say it?” Alistair cried in exasperation. “I was TRAINED as a templar, but I didn't take the vows, so I am not a full templar!”

 

“I saw the look you gave me when I turned up and you realized I was a mage,” Xolana snapped. “I saw the look when you found out what I can DO. Don't even PRETEND... I use Blood Magic, so I must be an evil abomination waiting to happen.” Something clearly snapped inside the normally even tempered mage. She’d gone totally on the vicious defensive, making Alistair flinch back.

 

“Xolana,” Conrí grabbed the mage’s shoulders gently. The guilt of her misstep with the demon was obviously still plaguing her. “Calm down.”

 

Xolana suddenly deflated and came back to her senses. “I... I'm sorry. I...” she turned to leave quickly before she made more of a fool of herself. Leliana quickly followed, worry creasing her brow.

 

After a while, Xolana finally stopped running and leaned back against a tree, her eyes closing as one hand firmly gripped the bark and the other covering her face.

 

“Xolana? Are you alright?” Leliana asked when she finally caught up.

 

Xolana jumped in surprise at the sound of the bard’s melodic voice. “I... Leliana... I...” Xolana gulped. “I didn't realize anyone followed me...” she looked away, clearly embarrassed.

 

“Conrí and Erin were making to as well. I was just faster,” Leliana told her.

 

“...Fuck...” Xolana let her head fall back against the tree trunk again and closed her eyes. A dry, humorless laugh escaped her. “I guess I gave up my right for some alone time when I became a Grey Warden, huh...”

 

“Of course not,” Leliana shook her head. “We just worry when someone runs off into the forest alone.”  


“I don't even know what happened there I just... I made a complete fool of myself...”

 

“I admit you outburst was rather uncharacteristic of you. What triggered it?” Leliana enquired. “Was it what happened in the Fade?”

 

“I.. I'm unsure...” Xolana muttered. “I’m sure that’s part of it. But it's never bothered me much before that he hates me and is afraid of me... and I know he's not REALLY a templar... but...”

 

“Alistair doesn't hate you,” Leliana contradicted.

 

Xolana let out another humorless chuckle as she pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Right,” she muttered. “Of course. And I'm not a mage. This is all an elaborate dream.”

 

“I'm not sure if Alistair quite knows how to hate someone,” Leliana continued.

 

“Even if by some miracle you are right and he doesn't... he is still terrified of me, and believes I should go back to that tower... scratch that, knowing what I can do, he must imagine I'd best be put down like a stray dog... Maybe worse, kept Tranquil.”

 

“Even if he did, and I don't think he does, you know the rest of us would never stand for it,” Leliana assured the mortified blood mage.

 

“...I can't go back there. I can't face any of them... not now…”

 

“What is really bothering you?” Leliana asked. “The others trust you, you know.”

 

“...Can I trust you?” Xolana asked, her voice almost pleading.

 

“I swear I will not reveal anything you say,” Leliana promised.

 

“Well he...” Xolana stammered. “He came to me asking why I was never mean to him and... somehow it turned into a conversation but... how... just how... how could I ever tell him that it's not because I have no reason to but... You see how I act. You see how I try to let others see me. How in the name of the Maker could I possibly tell him that I'm terrified of him?”

 

“It seems like you both have a similar problem,” Leliana contemplated. “Both of you are scared of the other because of either what you were taught to believe or because of things that had happened to you in the near past. As silly as it seems, I understand where you're both coming from. Though, I’ve rather taken issue with that templar Cullen’s attitude, Templars have always treated me fairly, and I've never quite bought into the Chantry's view on magic, so perhaps I am not the best example.”

 

“Just how... how are you not scared of them?” Xolana mumbled. “I still can't believe that the Wardens can truly keep me safe, even if we do survive this blight... especially with one of them in our midst...”

 

“Alistair's loyalty, first and foremost, is to the Wardens,” Leliana assured Xolana. “So he would not allow anyone, least of all a templar, take a Warden away. And be honest with me. Can you see your Commander allowing a sworn templar anywhere near you or Tristan? Or Wynne and Morrigan for that matter?”

 

“I... I believe in you... and Conrí, and all of you... but him. I can't believe that he no longer thinks like one of them. Like you all pointed out earlier... they are raised like that, all but born like that. Educated to hate and fear us and lock us away...”

 

“You were obviously not paying attention when he said he hated being a templar.”

 

Xolana was taken aback by Leliana’s words. “I... I heard him say it, but...”

 

“As good as he was at the training, the philosophy never meshed with his personality,” Leliana continued. “Yes, he is leery of blood magic, but then so are most people, even non-templars. When he was recruited by... Duncan? Their former commander? Anyway, when he was recruited, it was the happiest day of Alistair's life or so he says. And I think Morrigan is more in danger of an Alistair tantrum than you are.”

 

Xolana was silent for a few moments as she tried to let that information sink in. “I... suppose I'm being really rather silly, huh...”

 

“Just a little. But it is understandable. You were raised in the Circle, only knowing Templars as your jailers.”

 

Xolana let out a heavy sigh. “How can I possibly go back there right now and face them...”

 

“You heard about my past, no?” Leliana sighed.

 

Xolana nodded slowly. “Yes... yes I have.” Though I’ve no idea why you bring it up.

 

“There are those in Fereldan that feared bards more than the chevalier,” Leliana explained. “Conrí is from one of the most patriotic families to live here. Even in Orlais, the name Cousland was spoken with respect. If Conrí was going to exile anyone, who else would it be than the kind of person who helped Orlais seize Fereldan? I have much more to worry about in being cast aside... yet I don't. None of your fellow wardens are that kind of person.”

 

Xolana nodded slowly again. “You... you're right. I... Good grief, I'm sorry.”

 

“There is nothing you need apologize for.”

 

Xolana sighed. “I guess... we should head back before the others get worried...”

 

“Probably a wise choice,” Leliana agreed. “Come. Dinner should be done by now. And I’d imagine you are as hungry as I am.”

 

Xolana chuckled, a little of her usual humor slowly returning. “They're probably worried I've sated my hunger in other ways by now.” Xolana was still hesitant to move from the tree.

 

Leliana giggled. “Oh, if that were the case, they would know. I'm not a quiet lover.”

 

Xolana’s interest was immediately piqued. “Is that so...?”

 

“Indeed it is,” Leliana giggled again.

 

Xolana managed a slight, but real smile again. “Well then... perhaps one day I'll find out myself,” she pushed off from the tree to follow the redheaded bard. “In the meantime though...” Xolana took a deep breath. “Time to woman up to my fears...”

 

“You have nothing to worry about... except perhaps Alistair's cooking. Maker's breath, I hope he is not cooking tonight.”

 

Xolana chuckle slowly developed into real laughter. “You're right, perhaps that is more terrifying than his past.”

 

“I overheard Tira and Serena discussing if they could use Alistair's cooking to kill the darkspawn,” Leliana grimaced.

 

“I wouldn't blame them from trying,” said Xolana, still laughing.

 

“I am always amazed that I do not wake up sick after a night of Alistair's cooking. Though that may have something to do with Wynne being around.”

 

“I must say... you're brave for even trying it again and again. I am not so courageous,” Xolana admitted.

 

Leliana blinked. “Then what do you eat on those nights?”

 

“When I can find any, plants from the surrounding area. If I'm not so lucky... I stick with some of our other rations that I save up from other days. And...” Xolana’s expression turned shifty. “I may have secretly tracked small animals on some occasions...”

 

“And why were you not sharing?” Leliana cried. “I could have saved my stomach many a pain.”

 

“I thought I may get in trouble...?” Xolana mumbled her pathetic excuse.

 

“I am a bard!” Leliana near shrieked. “I know when it would be beneficial to keep a secret! And I think not missing sleep because my stomach won't stop roiling would have been beneficial.”

 

“Well I shall be sure to keep you informed in the future, ok?” Xolana smiled, no able to help but enjoy the thought of more time spent with Leliana.

 

* * *

 

Conrí sent Leliana a look of thanks as the pair returned to camp. Leliana nodded and moved to help Wynne prepare supper. “Uh. Okay,” Conrí cleared his throat. “If something feels off when I... attach these things,” he gestured to Shale with the light purple crystal in his hand. “Tell me.”

 

“I do not feel pain as you flesh creatures do,” Shale rumbled.

 

“Well, if you don't think the magic is flowing right, say something,” Conrí sighed. “Last thing I need is for you to explode.”

 

“I'd imagine it would miss my wonderful personality,” Shale snarked.

 

“More like ‘it's’ extraordinary destructive power,” Xolana mumbled.

 

“Well, nice to know I’m appreciated.”

 

“You have funny ways of showing it sometimes...” Xolana sighed as Conrí finished attaching one particular crystal and it started glowing with power . As Xolana spied this, her eyes sparkled and she watched in fascination. “Ooh wow it's so pretty... it looks like pure, liquid… lightning…” she started reaching out a hand as if she wanted to touch it but then thought better of it and retracted her hand again.

 

“Well, that is interesting,” Shale grunted. “Well? What does it think? They don't make me look too wide do they? I find I am already too wide as it is.”

 

“Oh, no, not at all. They’re very slimming,” said Serena, earning a series of peculiar looks from her companions. 

 

Xolana still breathless, exclaimed, “They're so beautiful… and can you feel the power radiating off them!?”

 

Conrí rolled his shoulders. “I felt... some kinda tingle if that means anything.”

 

“Well, the crystals are imbued with the power of lightning,” Shale explained, letting a series of electric arcs trail down its body.

 

Xolana couldn’t hold back any longer. “Do you think I can touch them...?” she asked meekly.

 

“I suppose,” Shale allowed. “Just don't rip them out. I rather like them.”

 

“Rip them... Perish the thought! They were pretty before, but only on you they turned gorgeous!” Xolana carefully put a finger to one and chuckle at the tingle of power. “Oh, these are wonderful,” she ran her smooth hands over surface, then frowned a bit. “Hey, Surana... come over here a second! She continued feeling the crystals until the elven mage came over and she then show him what she’d noticed. “Touch them, here... doesn't it feel to you as if they were not at full potential? As if more power could be stored in them?”

 

“These do seem powerful, but perhaps a little rough,” Tristan mused. “Maybe if we can find some better cut crystals.”

 

Xolana nodded along. “If I could understand how these crystals are imbued with power... It's unlike anything I've ever felt before...”

 

“Here,” Conrí held out a small lightning crystal. “Shale's slots are full and I grabbed one more than necessary from Bodahn.” 

 

Xolana eyes sparkled as she took it. “Oh wow... I wonder if I can figure this out...” Xolana continued to get excited over the puzzle. 

 

Conrí smiled slightly, relieved the mage was back to her old self. Xolana, Tristan and Morrigan began examining the crystal in earnest, even drawing Wynne’s curiosity. It seemed the tension of the past number of weeks had faded with the puzzle provided by one magical little crystal. “You have to enjoy the little things,” Bryce Cousland had told his younger son frequently. 

 

Conrí’s smile turned bittersweet as his eyes turned toward the north. It had been months since the siege on Highever Castle, but he still had nightmares of that fateful night. Every time was as terrifying as the first… he could still smell the smoke… feel the flames on his face… still see the blood staining the walls of his home.

 

He was shaken from his dark musings by Garik. Apparently he and Serena had been drawn into the conversation since no one knew minerals better than a dwarf. “Xolana, we're dwarves, in case that little detail slipped past you.”

 

“Dwarves aren't completely immune to magic, you know,” Blair pointed out between mouthfuls. 

 

“True, but when you have the regent of the country after you, who has time to worry about magic?”

 

“And just ignore Alistair,” Serena added. “The chantry has jammed a rod up his arse about magic in general.”

 

“Hey!”

 

Xolana laughed. “Well, immune or not, it may please you to hear that I preferably wield other kinds of magic,” for an example, she zapped Alistair's ass with a tiny little lightning bolt.

 

“Hey! That was not called for!” Alistair sulked, having gotten over his wariness from earlier.

 

“Funny, though,” Erin chuckled.

 

Xolana laughed. “I was hoping that jolt might help you dislodge the aforementioned rod!”

 

“No I think you just electrified it,” Conrí laughed.

 

“Ho-ho-ho, funny. What is it, pick on Alistair day?” Alistair pouted.

 

“But you pout so adorably,” Xolana chuckled and leered making Alistair blush and stammer.

 

“Um... I’ll uh, just go get camp set up.”

 

“Virgin,” Garik snickered.

 

Xolana laughed gleefully. “Oh I can get used to this.”

 

“I’ll say it once more. Don't break him. He's still useful.”

 

Alistair called from his place putting up his tent. “Thanks! Appreciate your empathy, Lieutenant.”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow cockily. “But breaking handsome men is such an... Enjoyable endeavor.”

 

“No! No breaking! I'm not listening! Lalala!”

 

Xolana was almost dying of laughter again. “In all honesty, has he always been like this? Do I need to brew him a relaxing potion?”

 

“Until about six months ago, he'd been in the Chantry most of his life,” Conrí explained. “So there was little to no talk of carnal pleasure. He's about as experienced in the joys of sex as a 13 year old boy.”

 

Xolana stared in utter bafflement. “I didn't get to have much fun either - I thought that was half the joy of getting out! Finally!”

 

Conrí shrugged. “The priests were making him prepare for a vow of celibacy. Once he took his vows, he wouldn't have been allowed to have sex ever.”

 

“And he was going to DO it!?” Xolana’s mouth was agape in true horror, sympathy and disbelief.

 

“As I hear it, the choice was made for him. Ordered by Isolde,” Erin muttered. She still had no respect for the Arlessa. Her foolish actions cost several innocent lives. One was almost her own son.

 

“Well what is wrong with the man! He should be ecstatic to have female attention then!” Xolana just about ready to march over to the royal bastard and give him a speech about how indulging himself but Conrí stopped her.

 

“You might make his head explode. I jest, but like I said, he has no experience of a beautiful woman flirting with him. Doesn't exactly have the highest opinion of himself.”

 

Xolana’s smirk quickly returned. “Oh, I see, you just want me for yourself, don't you?” she purred, pressing closer to Conrí. “It’s ok, don't be shy, just ask.”

 

“Not exactly proper, is it?” Conrí chuckled. “For a recruit to flirt with her commanding officer.”

 

“Hey I'm not initiated yet, and like Mr. Proper over there,” Xolana gestured to Alistair. “I have got many years of pent up frustration waiting to be placated. Unlike him though... I'm not scared to do something about it. As Zevran learned recently.”

 

Leliana giggled. “Oh, I can just imagine the broadsheet headlines. ‘De facto Warden Commander has scandalous affair with new recruit.’”

 

Xolana leaned into Leliana, muttering just loud enough for the entire camp to hear her. “Don't forget my tearful interview where I describe in vivid detail how he coerced me, making full use of his higher rank. There's a story if I've ever heard one.”

 

“Not making the best case for yourself, Amell,” Conrí chuckled

 

“What is wrong with you people?” Alistair muttered.

 

* * *

 

The group made its way into the Brecilian Forest at the crack of dawn the next day, with much grumbling from Alistair and Blair, who preferred to sleep until late morning. After a few hours of walking, Blair slid up next to Conrí. “I think we’re being followed,” she mumbled.

 

“Aye. For about an hour now,” Conrí told her. “Dalish most likely or bandits. Hm. Tira!” he called to the back of the group. The Dalish hunter made her way quickly to the front. “I doubt you clan is still in these parts, but perhaps it is best that you take the lead on this one. The Dalish might react better to one of their own speaking for the group rather than a Shemlen,” Conrí’s expression soured as he said the word. He truly hated when someone would refer to another person by their race or place of birth.

 

Tira seemed surprised and not a little worried. “Are you sure, Conrí? I mean, I’ve never lead anything besides a hunt and even then…”

 

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine,” Conrí smirked. “Think of it this way, you can’t do any worse than Tristan did at the Circle.”

 

“Eat me,” Tristan sneered.

 

The group continued until a Dalish sentry came into view. Tira smiled and waved. “Mithra!” she called.

 

“Andaran atish’an, my friend,” Mithra smiled back. “You have come a long way. I give you the welcome of our clan,” Mithra’s eyes hardened as they swept over the group, especially when she spied the humans. “These are curious companions you have. Might I ask the purpose of your visit?”

 

“We have come on behalf of the Grey Wardens, sister,” Tira told her.

 

“The Grey Wardens? You… have joined their ranks? How unusual! Excuse my surprise. I will take you to the keeper right away.”

 

Mithra led the group into the camp. Passing several aravel, the Dalish landships, on the way, they made their way to a tall, bald elven man wearing the robes of a mage. “Hmmm,” the elder mage hummed as he spotted Mithra leading the group. “I see we have guests… and one of our own, no less.”  The elf's spiel was interrupted by an angry growl. Looking behind, Conrí saw to his great surprise Koun barking viciously at the old elf, his teeth bared and hackles raised, growling at the elf. Conrí quickly silenced the dog, but privately his unease about their surroundings grew. ‘He's never been wrong about people before. So what's riling him about this elf?’

 

For his part, the old elf showed no unease at the mabari's angry barks; his lips merely curled into a haughty sneer of disdain as he glowered at the dog and coldly remarked, “And they have a hound with them; as if we've not had enough trouble with such creatures.” The old elf shook his head and then turned his attention to the female scout, missing Conrí and Erin’s narrowed eyes.

 

“This one is from one of our sister clans to the north, Keeper. Marethari’s if I remember correctly, but she claims to have come on behalf of the Grey Wardens,” Mithra told him, like her keeper glowering at Conrí’s mabari. The war dog merely rumbled with a low growl his eyes still fixed on the Keeper. Kiba stood silently at Blair’s side, though his piercing brown eyes never left Zathrian. Even Tsume, who had to be used to Keepers, seemed about a second from baring her fangs as well. 

 

“The Grey Wardens?” the keeper smiled. “How unusual that one of our own should join their ranks. How did such a thing occur?”

 

Tira winced slightly. “It… is a long story. Perhaps another time?”

 

“Perhaps so. At the moment, I’m afraid I have little time to spare for long tales. Ma serannas, Mithra, you may return to your post.”

 

“Ma nuvenin, Keeper,” Mithra bowed and made her way back to the entrance of the camp.

 

“Now, then,” the Keeper spoke formally. “Perhaps we might introduce ourselves. I am Zathrian, keeper and hahren of this clan. You are?”

 

“I am Tira Mahariel of the Sabrae clan. This is Conrí and Erin Cousland of Highever to the northwest, Tristan Surana and Xolana Amell of the Circle of Magi on Lake Calenhad, Serena Aeducan and Garik Brosca of Orzammar, Blair Tabris of Denerim to the north, Alistair formerly of Redcliffe and our companions, Leliana, Morrigan, Zevran, Wynne, Sten and Shale.”

 

Zathrian’s gaze seemed less disdainful when it passed over Tristan, Blair and Zevran, and curious when he spied Shale, but the scorn returned in full force when it found Sten. The stoic giant of a man gave no noticeable reaction, but to those who had traveled with him sensed his distaste of the Keeper. “If you came to bring news of the Blight in the south,” he said. “It is not needed. I had already sensed its corruption. I would have taken the clan north by now, had we the ability to move. Sadly, as you can see, we do not.”  
  
Sten snorted quietly. “So their first reaction to trouble is to flee from it. Curious.”

 

Zathrian continued as though Sten had not spoken. “Do not allow our trouble to burden you, though I suspect they may impact your mission. I imagine you are here regarding the treaty we signed centuries ago. Unfortunately, we may not be able to live up to the promise we made.”

 

Conrí grimaced. Great. First it’s the templars denying us any aid whatsoever and now a group we have an agreement with is trying to squirm out of it. I don’t trust this elf. What reason could he have for reneging on an agreement set by his forebears? Is this going to be a repeat of the issue with the Dales?

 

Zathrian must have read the warrior’s expression since he raised a placating hand. “It is not that we wish to deny aid. This will require some… explanation. Please, follow me.”

 

Tira nodded and turned to her fellows. “Conrí, and Serena, with us. The rest of you, find a place to rest but endeavor to stay out of the way of craftsmen and hunters.”

 

“Would I permitted to gather herbs and such from around the camp?” Wynne asked Zathrian. “I find myself short on numerous components.”

 

“Yes, provided Master Varathorn has not collected them all,” Zathrian agreed.

 

“I will patrol the area,” Sten rumbled. “One can never have too many eyes opened for danger.”

 

“Wisely said, Sten,” Tira nodded.

 

Zathrian led Tira and her chosen companions to what was obviously the infirmary. “The clan came to the Brecilian forest one month ago, as is our custom when we enter this part of Ferelden. We are always wary of the dangers that lurk within the forest, but we did not anticipate the werewolves would be lying in wait.”

 

‘Werewolves?’  Conrí thought, astounded. He’d heard tales of the epidemic of men who could change into beasts during the Black Age; as Aldous had taught him, his ancestor Mather Cousland had played a pivotal part in protecting Highever and its dominions from the ravages of the lycanthropes. However, no more such creatures had been seen in centuries, and many in Ferelden believed wolf-men to be little more than tall tales to frighten children. ‘Though evidently, this is not the case.’

 

“They… ambushed us,” Zathrian murmured. “And though we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors lie dying as we speak...” 

 

“Why did they attack you?” Conrí questioned.

 

“They are savage and unrelenting; they need no reason to attack anyone. What is curious, however, was the ambush. We expect werewolves to be no more cunning than a rabid wolf. The ambush suggests a level of intelligence we’ve not seen before.”

 

“Maybe they’re cleverer than you think,” Serena suggested. 

 

Zathrian gave a derisive snort at the thought, a little too quickly for Serena’s liking. The swift bluntness of his reply also made Serena a little uncertain. “I doubt that; the curse that runs rampant in their blood fills them with an unthinking rage that precludes any true thought,” the old elf finished with a contemptuous scowl. 

 

The disdain in his voice made it clear to Conrí he wasn’t willing to accept any other explanation. Conrí showed no sign of his discomfort at the open disgust the elf had expressed and kept his voice neutral as he spoke again. “Is there any way to help your men? The human kingdom is in disarray; we need all the allies we can get against the darkspawn.”

 

Zathrian gave an uneasy grimace. “The affliction is a curse that runs rampant through their blood, bringing great pain and ultimately either death, or a transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself and that… that would be no trivial task to retrieve.”

 

“But you’re going to ask anyway, aren’t you?” Tira questioned, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I would not ask anything. T’was you who asked,” the old elf answered with a sly smile. “But in answer to your question, there is something you can do to help our clan. Within the Brecilian Forest, there dwells a great wolf; we call him Witherfang. It was within him the curse originated, and through his blood that it is spread. If he is killed and his heart brought to me, perhaps I could destroy the curse, but this task has proven too dangerous for us. I sent a group of my best hunters into the forest nearly a week ago, but they have not returned, and I cannot risk any more of my clan.”

 

“Have you considered seeking outside help?” Serena asked.

 

“From whom?” Zathrian scoffed. “The Children of the Stone? The shemlen? Do you truly think they have the time to spare for us?”

 

“You said you could ‘perhaps’ destroy the curse?” Conrí asked, skeptical. 

 

“There is no guarantee that this will work as I suspect,” Zathrian admitted. “But it is the only hope we have left.”

 

“Very well. If it will secure the aid of your clan against the Blight, then I will seek out this Witherfang for you,” Tira sighed. 

  


I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy as to simply show up with the treaty and hope the Dalish would rally to our banner immediately,’ Serena thought dejectedly. ‘Life’s never that easy. Still, we need the aid of the Dalish, and if helping the elves against their current threat is the way to secure their aid against the darkspawn…

 

Zathrian gave a satisfied smile and inclined his head gratefully, but then his eyes became hard, and he spoke in a serious tone. “I should warn you, more than werewolves lurk within the Brecilian Forest. It has a history of carnage and mayhem. Where there is so much death in one place, the Veil separating the spirit world from our becomes thin, allowing spirits to possess things both living and dead. But if you can indeed help us, then I wish you luck.”

 

“I have some questions, before I depart,” Tira told him.

 

Zathrian nodded understandingly, but replied in a brisk tone. “Make them quick, if you please; I have much to do. My apprentice, Lanaya,” he gestured to the blonde girl at his side. “Or Sarel, the clan’s tale-teller,” indicating the older male elf with greying hair by the fire. “Could answer them just as easily.”

 

“How did this curse originate?” Tira asked. 

 

Zathrian looked rather uneasy at this question; he stayed silent for a significant period of time, and when he finally answered, it was in a quick, blunt manner that did not allay Conrí’s suspicions, only aroused them further. “That… that is a long story I do not have time to tell. Ask Sarel about it if you are truly interested.” 

 

Tira nodded, but her mind was roiling. You know more than you’re telling. The question is what are you hiding, and more importantly, why?

 

“Can these creatures pass the curse on to anyone? And how does one know if you’re infected?” she asked, wishing to know more about the enemy they were likely to face in the forest.

 

“The curse came first from Witherfang, but now any werewolf can infect their victims with it,” Zathrian warned. “Should you be infected, you will be aware of it in a matter of days: you will begin to develop a fever, sweating and vomiting uncontrollably. Your temper will also become wild and uncontrollable as the curse progresses. Should this happen, you should seek Witherfang out with greater haste. Your reasons will be more… personal at that point.” 

 

“Is there any way to protect against the curse? Some magic, for example?”

 

Zathrian shook his head. “My magic can slow the progression of the curse, but we have found nothing that can stop it. The best cure seems to be prevention: it would better for you not to get bitten in the first place.”

 

“Very well, I shall gather my companions and some supplies, and we shall start our search thereafter,” Tira answered. Zathrian nodded and then turned away, gesturing to his injured charges.

 

“I must return to caring for my people. Creators’ speed on your way.”

 

Taking her leave of the Keeper, Tira lead Conrí and Serena to gather the others. Once the companions had reconvened, and ensured none of the elves were choosing to eavesdrop on their conversation, Tira swiftly relayed what Zathrian had told him to the others.

 

“I don’t like it,” was Morrigan’s immediate reply. “This elf wishes us to venture into the depths of this forest, crawling with bloodthirsty lycanthropes and all other manner of dangers, chasing a needle in a haystack because it might help his people? It is madness!”

 

“Though it pains me, I agree with the mage,” Sten added. “I recognize deception when I smell its stench. The leader of these elves reeks of it.”

 

“I agree,” Conrí added. “He’s hiding something. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he refuses to acknowledge the werewolves are after something more than simple mayhem. He was also quite evasive when asked about how the curse came about, as well.”

 

“Perhaps we should do as he suggested for the moment,” Serena offered. “His First or whatever and the story teller could be much more useful for information.”

 

“And we need supplies,” Erin put in. “Perhaps we should divide the work.”

 

“I agree,” Blair nodded. Garik, Tristan and Alistair gave their assenting words.  


“Very well, then,” Tira went on. “Conrí, you Erin and Garik gather what supplies you can afford from Master Varathorn. Wynne, do you have enough herbs for more potions?” Wynne nodded, holding up the mortar and pestle she was using to grind up a number of elfroots. “Sten, Zevran, help her find any she missed. We’re running dangerously low on medicinal herbs. Serena, take Alistair and Tristan and find out what you can from Lanaya. Morrigan, would you mind scouting the forest from above to be sure there are no werewolves lying in wait?” Morrigan sighed but moved to do as she was asked, shifting into a large hawk and drawing murmurs of amazement and wonder from the Dalish watching. “Shale, would you be so kind as to follow on foot? I do not see a creature of the forest being all that willing to combat one such as you.”  


“True enough,” Shale rumbled. “I will do as the forest elf asks.”

 

“Tsume, you, Koun and Kiba go with Shale. Your noses will be useful. The rest of us will speak with Hahren Sarel,” Tira concluded. “Come. We have much to do and little enough time to do it.”

 

Conrí lead Erin and Garik over to the aging crafts master who was scolding his apprentice. Sten and Zevran spread out, keeping their eyes peeled for any medicinal herbs that might be of use while Serena, Alistair and Tristan approached Lanaya. Tira lead her group over to the fire with Wynne joining them, still at work.

 

“Andaran atish’an, lethallan,” the storyteller greeted. “Would you come and help us break our fast?” 

 

Tira smiled. “I would like that.”

 

“Come then, and sit. Join us by the fire. I am Hahren Sarel, the clan’s storyteller. You have one in your own clan I assume?”

 

“Yes,” Tira nodded. “Paivel, our elder.”

 

“Ah!” Sarel smiled. “Hahren Paivel still lives? That is good, for he was old even when I was but da’len. How lucky you are to have been reared with his tales. I notice… you are not alone. These companions of yours are Grey Wardens like yourself?”

 

Blair nodded. “Some of us. I am Blair Tabris, from Denerim. I was raised on stories of the Dalish by my mother, Adaia.”

 

“Um, Xolana Amell,” said the blood mage. “I am not a Warden yet, but they others treat me as one. I would love to hear what stories you can provide, Hahren.” Xolana halted a moment. “Did I say that right?” she asked Tira. The Ranger nodded.

 

“I am Wynne,” the senior enchanter nodded respectfully. “It is wonderful to meet you.”  
  
“I am Leliana, and no Grey Warden at all,” the bard announced. “I am honored to be here; I’ve heard so much about your people.”

 

“Andaran atish’an; enter this place in peace,” Sarel returned Wynne’s nod. “I do find it odd that any of your kind would so readily follow one of the Dalish,” he turned to Tira. “Do you suppose you have been made a Grey Warden simply to get our assistance? Maybe they think we would not live up to the treaty otherwise.”

 

Tira seemed a bit offended by the elder’s words. “I assure that is not the case,” she said firmly. 

 

Sarel scowled. “Oh, you do, do you? No offense, young one, but you don’t know half the--”

 

“Please, Hahren Sarel,” one of the hunters pleaded. “You are being most unkind to one who is not only of our blood, but also a guest who is here to help us.”

 

Sarel slumped and put a hand to his head. The aging elf seemed ashamed and embarrassed. “Of course… I apologize for my rudeness. Our losses have been great and I am… not myself.”

 

“The hahren’s own wife has perished from the werewolf’s curse,” a male hunter explained. “We are mourning her death, here, and many more to come.”

 

“I am sorry for your loss, hahren,” Tira told him, offering a sad smile.

 

“Ma serannas,” Sarel thanked the Ranger. “Better her suffering be ended now than for her to have become a… a beast. These have not been easy days for us, and the idea that we may yet have to abandon our ill to their fate… But let us not dwell on our problems. Is there something we can do to help in your quest?”

 

Tira and the others went on to ask about the forest and what lay within. Sarel was more than happy to tell all he knew, even about Wynne’s former apprentice who she was certain had died years before.

 

“One last warning,” Sarel concluded. “The forest is like a thing alive. It changes as it wills, closing paths behind you and opening new ones. Too many have become lost within, unable to find their way out. Were I you I would endeavor not to make the forest my enemy.”

 

While Tira, Leliana, Blair and Wynne listened to Sarel, Conrí had approached the crafts master, Varathorn. When greeted with his peoples own words from the mouth of a human, Varathorn seemed pleasantly surprised. “Ah, you speak some of our tongue.”

 

“Aye,” Conrí nodded. “I did not wish to come across as ignorant or rude. Would you mind if I examined some of your craft?”

 

“By all means,” Varathorn gestured to several weapons before him. 

 

Conrí picked up a short dagger much like the one Tira wore at her belt. His brow furrowed slightly as he tested the edge with the pad of his thumb. “I do not claim to be an expert on such things, but this is like no metal I have ever seen.”

 

Varathorn’s smile became a mite mischievous. “That is because it is not metal, my friend. ‘Tis wood.” Conrí looked up, surprised.

 

“Wood?” Erin asked, examining the blade in her brother’s hand. “Forgive my incredulity, but I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

 

Garik took the blade and lifted it to his nose. “Aye, no metal I know smells like this.”

 

“It is one of our people’s secrets. The wood only grows in this forest. Ironbark. It is as strong as steel but far lighter. I excel at making blades from ironbark.”  
  
“Yet more reason to appreciate Dalish craftsmanship,” Conrí murmured, glancing at the longbow on his back.

 

“You have a Dalish bow?” Varathorn asked, spying the curved limbs peaking over Conrí’s large shoulder. “May I?”

 

“Of course,” Conrí pulled the weapon from the sheath attached to his quiver. He handed the red tinted bow to Varathorn.

 

“Hm. Not a style I’ve come across a great deal. This is from one of the clans in Nevarra, yes?”

 

“From what my father told me, yes,” Conrí told him. “It was a gift for his assistance in dealing with a band of highwaymen that had been harassing the clan.”

 

“I see,” Varathorn swept a practiced eye over the bow. “This is most impressive. You see, the more drastic curves allow more power in a smaller frame. Very useful for hunting on the back of a halla or horse. And it made of more than wood. Halla horn, unless I am much mistaken, overlaid with Dragonthorn. This is indeed a princely gift. Both you and your father do not seem to realize how great a deed warrants such a thing. These bandits must truly have been a nuisance for a craftsmen to allow such a thing into humans hands.” The elf shook his head. “Ah, and there I go on again. My apologies, I do tend to get distracted when something unknown crosses my sight. Do you need anything in particular? Arrows perhaps? Or a new string?”

 

Conrí glanced around, his sharp eyes finding his numerous companions, namely those who used bows. “Arrows, definitely. As many as you think you can spare. And we are in need of medicine and medicinal herbs. Again, any you can spare.”

  
Varathorn smiled and made his way to the back of his aravel and returned with several quivers full of arrows. After setting them before his customers, he opened a chest beneath the table and drew out several bundles of both fresh and dried elfroot along with numerous health potions. “Here we are. None of this shall be missed over much and it shall be easily replaced.”

 

“Thank you,” Conrí nodded. “How much does this come to?”

 

Varathorn thought for a moment. “Perhaps instead of coin, you might consider a favor as payment?”

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow with a small smile. “I would have to hear this favor before I agree, Master Varathorn.”  
  
Varathorn chuckled. “Wise of you, my friend. My stock of ironbark is running rather low. Since we are not permitted into the forest at the moment, I cannot retrieve more. If it isn’t too much trouble…?”

 

Conrí nodded. “How would I recognize this sort of tree?”

 

“The bark will be blue, and very distinctive. You can only harvest bark that has fallen from the tree with age.”

 

“We will look while in the forest,” Conrí promised.

 

“Then we have an arrangement,” Varathorn grinned, offering his hand. Conrí shook it with a smile. 

 

The group reconvened and listened as each group told of their acquired knowledge and supplies. Conrí handed out the arrows to those who needed them and the bundle of herbs to Wynne before distributing the numerous potions. Zevran and Sten handed Wynne yet more herbs, making the elder woman chuckle at their efficiency. Serena explained what she, Alistair and Tristan had learned from Zathrian’s First before Tira relayed what she had been told about the forest and the werebeasts. 

 

“So…” Erin drawled, strapping her new, sturdier quiver onto her back. “What’s the plan?”

 

Tira thought for a moment. “Serena, Blair, Shale, Leliana and Zev, I think you should stay back. Keep an eye on things and help protect the clan just in case,” the elf’s green eyes swept over where Zathrian was tending a hunter and lowered her voice. “And keep an eye on Zathrian in particular. I don’t fully trust him.”

 

“Wardens!” Sarel called, beckoning the group back towards the fire. “I have a question of my own, if you will allow it.” Tira nodded, gesturing for Sarel to continue. “I have read of the agreement between we Dalish and the Grey Wardens. I must ask why the Grey Wardens did not assist the Dales when we fell under attack by the human Chantry?”

 

Tira was brought up short by this question and looked to Conrí, the most experienced of the Wardens with her besides Alistair. “You know more of the Wardens than I.”

 

Conrí sighed and crossed his arms. “Usually Grey Wardens are supposed to remain neutral in such things, but there is a reason we did not ignore this during the so-called Exalted March on the Dales. It began during the Second Blight in the Anderfels with the corruption of Zazikel, the Old God of Freedom or the Dragon of Chaos, depending on who you ask, in the fifth year of what the Chantry refers to as the Divine Age. It lasted to the ninety fifth year. Ninety years and the elves of the Dales didn’t do a damn thing to stop the horde, claiming the darkspawn were a human problem. In 1:25 Divine, twenty years after the Blight began, the darkspawn sacked Montsimmard. Thousands of lives lost in the blink of an eye,” Conrí’s eyes darkened, as he looked to the sky. “And the Dales just fucking watched. Remained neutral and unhelpful despite numerous pleas for help from the Grey Wardens, who the Dalish King had made an agreement with almost a hundred years before. The Dalish like to claim to be innocent victims of the Chantry’s cruelty and to an extent you are right. The Chantry did you a great injustice, but do not claim the Grey Wardens left the Dales to their fate because of religious disagreements. The Dales were left to their fate because the Dales left Thedas to its fate,” Conrí turned to see Zathrian watching, his face in a deep scowl. Conrí spoke to Sarel, but kept his eyes on the Keeper. “I will not abandon your clan to the werewolves, nor would I even were I not among the Warden’s ranks,” Conrí now spoke directly to Zathrian. “But I warn you. Should you repeat the actions of your forbears and I survive this blight, these werebeasts will be the least of your worries, for I will become the most dangerous enemy you will ever face, Zathrian.” With that, Conrí spun on his heel and strode into the forest without another word.  

 


	25. In the Forest of Spirits and Demons

 

They entered the forest and Tira was left with a feeling of unease in the silence. The only noises were the sounds of leaves and seeds falling from the trees and the distant sound of running water, brief interruptions in the deathly silence. She looked around, and he could tell the others were just as uneasy about it as she was. Xolana was shifting uneasily in the robes Varathorn had provided for her, though she excused this with the fact she wasn’t used to them. Despite this, they couldn’t afford to let uneasiness stop them: they had a task to complete. 

 

They’d met Shale on its way back to the camp, asking the golem to wait with those left to keep an eye on things. The golem agreed, lumbering back the way it had come.

 

Conrí motioned the group on until they reached a waterfall tumbling into a river. In the water was a small island connected by three bridges, one on each side. As they crossed the bridge, they noticed that up ahead were three werewolves running towards them. Leading them was an unusual brown werewolf that was distinctly bigger than the other two and had two wide scars over its left eye. As the Wardens approached, they noticed many more werewolves appeared from above, waiting to attack, but were held back by the orders of their leader, the brown werewolf.

 

As they came onto the island, the werewolf leader spoke to them, “Hrrr. The watch-wolves have spoken truly, my brothers and sisters.” The werewolves around him growled in response before their leader continued to speak, “We have humans, dwarves and a Qunari, all things, along with their treacherous kin to repay us for our attack on the Dalish, to put us in our place. What bitter irony.”

 

Conrí’s eyes widened in shock. These creatures can speak? He thought. He shook his head to clear it. If they could speak, they could be reasoned with. “Who are you?” Conrí asked. 

 

“You speak to Swiftrunner,” the werewolf introduced himself. “I lead my cursed brothers and sisters.” Swiftrunner then growled before it barked out, “Turn back now, go back to the Dalish, and tell them that you have failed. Hrrr. Tell them we gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for far too long. We will watch them pay!”

 

“Can't we just negotiate?” Tira asked while holding her bow tightly.

 

“Was it not Zathrian who sent you?” Swiftrunner asked with a growl. “He wishes only our destruction, never to talk!”

 

“Is there no way this can be solved peacefully?” Erin asked.

 

“The time for peace is long past,” Swiftrunner stated. “There will be no peace between Zathrian and we who are cursed.”

 

“Is Zathrian responsible and how are you able to talk?” Tira asked Swiftrunner.

 

Swiftrunner snarled in response, turning to the others. “You know nothing, do you? None of you do, not even the Dalish Elf you travel with. You know nothing of us and even less of those you serve. You are fools, and we are done talking.” Swiftrunner then got in a combat stance to yell, “Run from the forest while you can. Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed.”

 

Conrí didn’t move a muscle as he stared Swiftrunner in the eye. The forest was silent as Swiftrunner gazed into the eyes so like and yet unlike his own. “We don't want to fight, but we will not retreat either,” Conrí stated.

 

“I do not wish to fight you, either, but we cannot trust you,” Swiftrunner admitted as he turned to his fellow werewolves to bark out, “Come, brothers and sisters, let us retreat. The forest has eyes of its own, and it will deal with intruders as it always has.” Swiftrunner and his fellow werewolves then turned around and retreated deep in the forest.

 

They continued across the stream, pressing deeper into the forest, encountering danger at every turn. Not only the werewolves, but rabid wolves and bears. Most were dropped with an arrow to the throat or heart by Tira, Erin or Conrí long before they got close or sent beyond the Veil by Morrigan, Tristan or Xolana’s magic, while the few that did manage to evade the arrows and blasts of sorcery were hit by Koun, Kiba and Tsume, the pair of mabari and lone wolf knocking the beasts aside and tearing out their throats before they could recover. This left Sten, Serena and Alistair with little to do, but there were few complaints from the warriors.

 

In death, the werewolves regressed, returning to the individuals they had once been before the curse consumed them. Many times, in death, they became elves of both genders, bearing the tattoos and marks on their flesh that marked them out as Dalish elves. No doubt members of Zathrian’s clan infected in the attack and consumed by the curse before they had arrived. 

 

But the most unsettling danger, even more so than the rabid beasts and werewolves, made its first appearance on the other side of the barrow as they began to descend into a shallow, tree-filled valley. There had been a blood-curdling roar from either side of the group and Conrí had looked around to see what he’d taken for an oak sapling lunging at him, branches extended like claws, the bark of its trunk shifting and contorting to form a leering, monstrous face that snapped and roared angrily. Long, slender branches reached for his neck, scratching his face and drawing blood, but before they could close around his throat, Conrí heard the tree-creature lunging at him screeching in pain as flames came into being from the air around him and lashed the thing’s wooden hide.

 

Chancing a look behind him, Conrí saw the mages were laying into the wooden creature with streams of fire and ice leaping from the palms of their hands, while Tira remained at a safe distance, shooting flaming arrows into the creature’s wooden hide. Erin, realizing her sword wouldn’t do much against the monstrosities,reached to her he belt and seized the haft of a wood axe she had been using that very morning for firewood. She struck out, severing one of the creature’s flailing limbs in a spray of sap. The tree creature shrieked in pain at its injuries, its thrashings growing weaker as Xolana’s flames burnt through it and Serena and Alistair hacked it into little more than flaming kindling. When Conrífinally put his sword through the center of the shrieking face formed in the bark of the tree creature’s body, it finally fell silent and still, the only sound coming from the crackling of the flames as they completed the destruction of the creature’s oaken form.

 

“What in the Void was that thing?” Erin rasped as she planted a foot on the smoldering heap of wood and wrenched the axe free.

 

“A sylvan,” Tira answered. “A tree possessed by a spirit, inevitably one that has gone mad from finding itself imprisoned in what amounts to little more than a wooden cage. The madness inevitably leads to a berserk rage, driving the sylvan to kill anything that crosses its path, purely to alleviate its anger.”

 

“We should be careful,” Xolana added. “The stories say the Veil that separates us from the spirit world is thin in the Brecilian Forest, and such entities are rife here. Who knows how many more mindless monsters lie in wait among the trees?”

 

Conrí nodded in agreement and they continued down the hill, coming into a small clearing where five more oak saplings surrounded one large, ancient oak tree. Conrí suspected all was not as it seemed, and his suspicions proved right when the five saplings sprang to life and reached for them with claw-like branches, howling in lunatic rage, but now they were ready for them. Xolana, Tristan and Morrigan blasted them with a torrent of fire and ice, after which Alistair, Serena and Erin attacked with axes, hacking the burning sylvans into piles of smoldering kindling as they desperately tried to put out the flames eating their bodies. In a few moments, the battle was won, and the only sounds were the sputter and crackle of flames as they completed the destruction of the tree spirits.

 

And then the ancient oak at the centre of the glade began to stir. The group readied their weapons, waiting for the possessed tree to throw itself at them with unthinking ferocity. The bark of the tree’s trunk began to twist and shape into the form of a wizened face, its branches contorting into long arms that extended towards Conrí. He raised his heavy blade, waiting for the inevitable attack, ready to hack the tree creature apart, though he imagined, given its size and age, this would be somewhat more of an arduous battle. Behind him, he heard the creak of bowstrings being drawn back and the crackle of flames, and knew that Tira, Erin, Morrigan, Tristan and Xolana were also ready. But to their surprise, the sylvan didn’t attack; it merely cocked its head slightly and regarded them quizzically, as though unsure what to make of them. To Conrí’s amazement, the creature began to speak. “Mmm… What manner of beast be thee, which comes before this elder tree?”

 

Considering that the other sylvans they’d encountered had thrown themselves at the group without a single warning, the fact that this one was speaking in a calm, even voice and regarding them with curiosity rather than hate caught Conrí off guard, so he lowered the sword, uncertain as to how to proceed. “So... is it not going to try to kill us?” he muttered to the others.

 

At this, the old sylvan nodded to the burning forms of its fellow creatures. “Thou speaketh of the sylvans, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf; they cannot control their fate.” At this, the sylvan gestured to itself and continued. “Allow me a moment to welcome thee; I am the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree. And unless thou thinks it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?”

 

“First, in answer to your question, I am a human,” Conrí replied. “But I would like some information, before you ask something of me. For a start, what are you?”

 

“I am an Elder Oak and nothing more, though once I dreamt of a time before, when I roamed the world and howled in pain; not of this world, but twixt and twain. Perhaps I was a spirit then, a wandering thing drawn to this glen? But then that spirit joined with a tree; since then, a tree is all I be.” 

 

“But you seem different. The others were not as… friendly,” Garik pointed out.

 

“Of the sylvans, this is true; they are quite mad, their virtues few. A spirit trapped within a tree, no eyes to see or mouth to scream. A cage of bark, a prison wood, a thing of rage, where nature stood,” the Grand Oak agreed.

 

“But you are not like them,” Serena countered. “You are calmer, you are reasonable… and you speak in rhymes! How did that come about?” To her surprise, the Grand Oak spread its branch-like arms wide and gave an almost human shrug.

 

“I do not know. Why does thou not? Thy words seem plain, a mundane lot. Perhaps a poet’s soul’s in me; does that make me a poet-tree?” the Grand Oak offered, finishing with a soft chuckle.

 

Conrí’s eyebrows shot up. A small incredulous laugh forced its way out. “Poetry! I get it!” Erin giggled from behind him. The others either laughed as well, or stared in amazement.

 

The Grand Oak chuckled again. “It was but a simple jest, a jibe to entertain my guest.”

 

“Can you tell us anything about this forest?” Tira asked. It had been her home for years, but even she didn’t know all its secrets.

  


“I can only say what a tree may see. It may not help you, but it is enough for me.”

 

“We seek the creature known as Witherfang, the Great Wolf,” Tristan told the Grand Oak, speaking for the first time since they had entered the forest. “Do you know whereabouts the beast makes its lair?”

 

“In the centre of the forest the weres do dwell, or so go the tales my fellows tell. But they cannot be followed there; the forest doth protect the weres,” the Grand Oak rumbled.

 

“How can that be?” Serena asked, confused. “Why would the forest protect those savage animals?”

 

“Perhaps weres use magic to command the trees?” the Grand Oak replied uncertainly. “All I know is the weres move as they please.”

 

“If you know where they are, is it possible you might know a way to penetrate the enchantments that prevent us following them?” Xolana asked.

 

“Perform the boon as I ask, and I shall reward you for the task. I have one desire: to solve a matter most dire. As I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn.”

 

“And you want your seed back, I take it?” Morrigan enquired, raising an eyebrow. 

 

The Grand Oak nodded. “All I have is my being, my seed; without it, I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out, yet I shall die if left without,” the tree finished, almost pleadingly.

 

Serena folded her arms across her chestplate and replied. “We could look for your precious acorn, but it could prove an arduous task; the thief you wish us to find could be long gone. What can you offer us in exchange for our aid?”

 

The Grand Oak rubbed its chin thoughtfully, and then clicked its fingers in realization, pointing to the many leafy branches that adorned it as it spoke. “My wooden skin has some magic, see, and part of it I can give to thee.”

 

“And what good would a piece of your wooden prison do us, spirit?” Morrigan snapped.

 

“The forest would see thee as a tree, and so no harm would come to thee,” was the sylvan’s answer.

 

“And this would allow us to breach whatever defenses prevent entry to the centre of the forest...” Conrí realized. “Yes, that sounds like it could be useful...”

 

“Wilt thou then perform the task? Wilt thou save me as I ask?” questioned the spirit with a pleading edge in its voice. 

 

Conrí gave a smile and a brief nod; considering that the spirit had been quite fair with them and informed them what they were likely to face in the forest, it seemed only fair. The spirit nodded and gestured into the deeper reaches of the forest. “We will do as you ask, Spirit.”

 

“Go to the east to find this man. I shall await, do what thou can,” the spirit’s voice faded away as it retreated back into its wooden home, becoming once more as still and lifeless as the tree it inhabited.

 

“Well,” Tira cleared her throat. “That was interesting, to say the least.”

 

“No kidding,” Xolana breathed. 

 

“Let’s go,” Conrí called. “We have a promise to fulfill.”

 

* * *

 

Back in the Dalish encampment, Blair was wandering around the outskirts. She was a bit disappointed by the aloof nature of many of the Dalish. It was as if she barely qualified as an elf to them. A few had been very kind, including the clan’s crafts master, who had been more than willing to set her up with a new set of armor and a bow that wasn’t just a step up from firewood. But most, including the Keeper, seemed to be more condescending. She’d almost stabbed a hunter who’d referred to her as a flat ear. 

 

Thankfully, the mouthy young man noticed Blair’s angry expression and how she was fingering her new daggers. Deciding to avoid her Dalish counterparts, she strolled around the perimeter of the camp. She came upon a bunch of rather lovely purple flowers. She knelt down to examine the blossoms, admiring the beautiful shade of royal purple. As she reached out to touch one, a voice spoke from behind her. 

 

“I would not do that, carina,” Zevran chuckled when Blair whirled around. “While rather lovely, Wolfsbane is a deadly beauty.”

 

“Oh… this is Wolfsbane…” Blair felt rather foolish. Her mother had warned her not to be too curious about flowers in the forest.

 

“Indeed,” Zevran knelt next to Blair and grabbed a stick to gently lift the flower. “Even touching the plant could give you a lethal dose of poison. But it does have its uses. Legends even say this seductive killer is a potent poison again werewolves.”

 

“Did the Crows teach you all this?” Blair asked, honestly curious. 

 

Zevran smirked ruefully. “And much more. Take for instance, that beautiful plant just there,” he pointed to a stack of white tube-like flowers growing under a tree not far away. “While not as potent as Wolfsbane, Foxglove is still a useful poison as well as an ingredient in heart medicine.”

 

“Any way I can convince you to teach me more?” Blair asked, immediately continuing when a lecherous grin spread across Zevran’s face. “Besides sleeping with you?”

 

“Ah, well, I suppose,” Zevran sighed, his disappointment obviously over exaggerated. “It would give me an excuse to spend more time with another lovely woman.”

 

“Xolana not enough for you, Zev?” Blair chuckled.

 

“Our lovely mage companion is more than enough for any man or woman. I am merely keeping my options open, as it were.”

 

For the next several hours, Zevran helped Blair harvest many poisonous plants, showing her how to mix them with other components, such as distillation and concentrating agents to create even more potent toxins. While no good for hunting, for combat, they would prove invaluable. After the lessons in plant toxicology, Zevran demonstrated how to coat Blair’s arrows in the deadly Wolfsbane paste. With the addition of the concentrator agents, a single arrow was likely to drop a large bear within seconds. And who knew what I could do to Darkspawn or Werewolves?

 

“So…” Blair started as she swirled the arrowhead in the glass jar of the now syrup-like Wolfsbane. “What do you think of the Dalish?”

 

“I know little enough of the Dalish other than the fact my mother was one, or so I am told,” Zevran sighed. “She fell in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good. And there the wood cutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book.”

 

Blair’s eyes widened. She was all too familiar with this sort of tale. It happened often in the Alienage. She was saddened, but knew Zevran would hate anything that smacked of pity. “And yet you're oddly cheerful about it all.”

 

“It could have been much worse,” Zevran shrugged. “Surely your life has not been so idyllic.”

 

Blair sighed. “True enough. While it was better than a lot in the Alienage, it wasn’t an easy life. I lost my mother a few years ago. A bunch of guardsman killed her during a protest in the market.” 

 

Zevran nodded, understanding but much like himself, he knew Blair wouldn’t welcome pity so he didn’t offer it. “I didn’t know my mother either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were. We were all raised communally by the whores. It was a happy enough existence, ignoring the occasional beating, until I was eventually sold to the Crows. I brought a good price, so I hear.” Zevran shook his head. “My original point is that my mother’s Dalish nature was always a point of fascination for me. Through all the years of my Crow training, the one thing of my mother’s that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful. I had to keep them hidden as we were not allowed such things. Eventually, they were discovered and I never saw them again.”

 

“But you don’t think of yourself as Dalish,” Blair prompted. 

 

“Not at all,” Zevran agreed. “I think of myself as Antivan, as you no doubt consider yourself Fereldan.”

 

Blair chuckled. “A fair point.”

 

“Come now. Enough talk of the Dalish. I still have much to teach and we do not want to seem as if we are gossiping about our hosts.”

 

Deep in the forest, the group who had sought to find Witherfang came across a rather decrepit campsite with an old tree stump in the middle. The mad mage that had stolen the Grand Oak’s acorn called it home. The old man agreed to trade something of value for the acorn. Conrí reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small silver ring, stamped with the emblem of House Cousland. 

 

Erin spied what Conrí was fingering. “Brother no…” she whispered. “That’s your signet ring!”

 

“I know,” Conrí muttered, running his thumb over the symbol. “I probably should have left it when Duncan recruited me, but I wanted something of Highever to remind me of home. But, its silver and may be enough to get the acorn.”

 

“We must have something else,” Erin insisted. 

 

“If it’s a ring he wants,” Serena broke in. “Give him this,” she handed them a simple band of silver engraved with runes. “I found it the ruins we passed on the way. Figured it would fetch a decent price, but this will work too.”

 

Conrí took the silver band. “Thank you, Serena.”

 

Serena shook her head. “No need. I understand,” she said, thumbing the iron ring around her middle finger; her own signet ring. 

 

“How about this?” Conrí asked, extending the ring to the mad hermit. “The ring for the acorn.”

 

“Ooh, shiny,” the old man cackled, reaching into his stump and pulling out a fist sized acorn. “Deal!” he said tossing the seed to Conrí and snatching the ring. “There, now that’s done, I must examine my new trinket.”

 

Conrí nodded and led the way back the path to the old Sylvan’s glade. As they rounded a bend, they found yet more ruins, littered with bones, both humanoid and animal. Sitting near a derelict wall in the north west was, of all things, a gravestone. Conrí knelt down and examined it. “Xolana, I think this is Tevinter script. Do you know what it says?”

 

The dusky skinned mage approached, brushing aside the sides of her new robes to crouch next to Conrí. “Hm. It’s an old dialect, but I’ve seen a lot of it in the Tower. ‘Interred here...Scipio, lieutenant to Alaric, general of Minrathous in service to Archon...’ something. Its rather worn, I can’t quite make out the name. Hold on, there’s more at the bottom...” Her amethyst eyes widened. “Be careful. Those feel like warding ruins. This is as much a prison as a grave.”

 

“Perhaps if we clear away the dirt, the runes might say more...” Conrí suggested as he gently knocked away some of the dirt obscuring the runes at the base of the stone block with his hand. An explosion of dirt, was Conrí’s answer. A hand encased in a gleaming metal gauntlet burst from the grave and wrapped itself around Conrí’s throat.

 

Conrí immediately clutched at the hand, beginning to choke as the metal fingers closed around his windpipe. He struggled to pull away but the hand of whatever creature was now emerging refused to relinquish its grasp. As the group watched, the creature’s upper body began to push the soil aside, the earth of the grave parting to expose the withered skeletal form of a warrior, clad in eroded metal armor and a winged helm. Unholy red lights burned in its empty eye sockets as it tightened its grip around the Wardens neck, slowly choking him.

 

In a fit of desperation, Conrí drove the point of his elbow into the weathered joint of the undead’s arm, doing enough to free himself. He fell back, gasping for breath as he quickly drew his sword. “Another blood revenant?!” he wheezed. 

 

“Indeed!” Morrigan called. “It seems a demon was bound to this warrior’s corpse to defend the site. Be wary. Revenants are possessed by demons of pride, making them amongst the most lethal risen creature.”

 

“If I remember correctly fire still work on them, no?” Erin asked, dodging the revenant’s enormous sword. 

 

“Naturally,” Morrigan snapped her fingers and their weapons were once again wreathed in flames. 

 

The revenant hissed as it drew its long bladed sword and massive shield. Conrí gripped his own blade firmly, growling back at the undead beast before charging like an enraged bull. The creature seemed caught off guard by this audacious attack and wasn’t fast enough to put up a guard before Conrí rammed a shoulder into its upper chest. Taking advantage of this, Conrí shifted his grip on his sword and slammed the pommel into the revenant’s belly, causing the undead to slouch forward, as though gasping for breath. The de facto Warden Commander reared back his sword to strike the final blow.

 

But before the blow could land, the revenant recovered and used its shield to bash Conrí off his feet and back about a dozen feet. The warrior landed hard on his back, knocking the breath from him and causing his sword to skid from his grip across the cobblestones. 

 

Before the revenant could follow the downed Cousland, an arrow and a crossbow bolt struck it in the chest. The beast hissed as its hellish eyes found Sten and Tira. Its hiss became a roar as fire from Morrigan and Xolana engulfed it and a Stonefist from Tristan staggered it. The glowing red eyes narrowed in hatred, as it reached out with a clawed hand and yanked it back. The archers and mages were pulled forward, landing painfully in front of the revenant. It reared back its sword to slaughter its helpless foes, only for Alistair to slide in, shield raised to stop the blow. The sword struck the wooden shield, shattering it to splinters. The revenant, sure of its victory now, started to swing, but suddenly paused, a look of shock on its weathered face. Suddenly two feet of shining steel emerged from the revenants chest piece.

 

The undead warrior had forgotten about the other Cousland. Erin yanked her sword out and swung the other, decapitating the revenant. The creatures body slumped forward, rapidly decaying to nothing but dust, leaving behind only the shining gauntlets and an ancient but sturdy shield made of slightly rusted red steel. 

 

Conrí got heavily to his feet, grabbing his sword and making his way to what remained of the undead warrior. He knelt down with a grunt and picked up one of the gauntlets. “Makers ass… Silverite,” he breathed, amazed to find such a rare metal rotting in a grave. He examined the inside, spying engravings near the cuff. “Juggernaut…”

 

Xolana perked up from where she and Wynne were examining Alistair’s arm. “Did you just say Juggernaut?” she asked, glancing at Wynne, who nodded. Xolana got up, dusting off her robes and quickly trotted over to Conrí. 

 

“A word you recognize?” Conrí asked.

 

“It’s an old Tevinter legend. The Magister Harach brought an army to this forest, led by Alaric, his friend and general. For Alaric, Harach fashioned a suit of the finest armor, infused it with lyrium and his own blood magic, and named it ‘Juggernaut’ after the unstoppable giant golems guarding the gates of Minrathous. Thus armed did Alaric win many victories against the Clayne tribes. When defeat came, it came from within. Alaric's own lieutenants rose up against him, envious of the fine armor. In a fury, Magister Harach voyaged to the outpost and slew the last three lieutenants. Harach used the last of his own life force to cast a spell of blood magic that bound demons to the bodies of the three dead lieutenants as well as Harach's own lifeless corpse. These bound revenants hid the pieces of the Juggernaut armor. The Juggernaut armor's legend lives on, and more than one brave soul has ventured into the depths of the Brecilian Forest in search, never to return.”

 

“So, that revenant was guarding these,” Conrí lifted up the other gauntlet. “Maybe there’s more nearby.”

 

“It’s worth checking,” Xolana agreed. 

 

Conrí slipped his hand from his own gauntlet and replaced it with the Juggernaut. “It’s a little loose…” he muttered before the metal grew warm and seemed to mold to his hand. “Or not… Magic, I take it?” he chuckled. “Anyway, it’s too heavy for me at the moment, but maybe later on, I could use it.”

 

“Well, it would be fitting for a future legend to wear such a mythical set of armor,” Erin teased.

 

Conrí scoffed. “Legend. Right. Like that’ll happen.”

 

The group continued back to the Grand Oak’s clearing, finding another revenant with a piece of the Juggernaut armor. This time, the group was ready and quickly routed the undead beast. Sten exerted his presence by pounding the revenant’s bones to dust with his maul, allowing the group to add the greaves and boots of the legendary armor to their collection. 

 

They quickly moved back to the Grand Oak’s glen, the ancient Sylvan waiting silently for their arrival. When Conrí presented the large seed to the creature, the Grand Oak took it gently, as if it were made of brittle glass. “My joy soars to new heights indeed!” the sylvan proclaimed, the delight in its voice clear to hear. “I am reunited with my seed!” The Grand Oak reached up behind the crown of leafy branches that surrounded its head and pulled one free from its back, stripped it of its leaves and shaped it into a long staff. The tree then handed it over to Conrí, who took it and bowed to the sylvan in thanks.

 

“As I promised, here it be; I hope it’s magic pleases thee. Keep this branch of mine with thee, and pass throughout the forest free,” The Grand Oak held up its acorn and tilted itself forward as it tried to bow to him, nearly uprooting itself in the process. The gratitude in its voice was clear as it continued. “I wish thee well, my mortal friends; thou brought my sadness to an end! May the sunlight find you, thy days be long, thy winters kind and thy roots be strong...” its voice faded away as the spirit retreated back into its wooden home.  


Conrí examined the wooden staff briefly. It seemed sturdy and even he could feel the immense magic pulsing through it. He wordlessly turned and handed the staff to Xolana.

 

“Amazing…” Xolana breathed. The Grand Oak’s Branch made her own staff seem like a poorly enchanted hunk of wood.

 

“It is a fine piece of magic,” Morrigan agreed, examining the surprisingly smooth texture of the wood. “A staff given by a still living sylvan. My this would make for an interesting tale. The staff’s magic is at its peak even without manipulation.”

 

“Figured you were due for an upgrade, Amell,” Conrí commented. “Anyway, the sun is starting to set. This seems as safe a place to sleep as any. We’ll gather some wood and set up camp for the night.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they made their way to a barrier of white mist. Recognizing it as a defense set by the trees or perhaps spirits, Xolana raised her new staff. A pulse of magic emanated from the tip causing the swirling fog to slowly dissipate. Once it was clear, the group continued, finding yet another tombstone marking the grave of a Tevinter lieutenant. Sten won the honor of dispatching this revenant, coming back with a massive silverite helm with a plume of blue feathers and a hinged visor. “One piece left,” he said, handing the helm to Conrí. 

 

“Seems so,” Conrí agreed. “Let’s take a quick rest for lunch. I’m starved.”

 

Erin gripped her rumbling stomach. “The joys of being a Grey Warden,” she snarked, digging into her pack for a half loaf of elven bread and a few strips of venison jerky. She sat down between Tira and Serena and took a large bite of bread. “You know… this elvish stuff is not bad.”

 

“Better than lichen bread,” Serena agreed before taking a bite of her own. 

 

“I only wish we had some blackberry preserves to go with it,” Tira sighed. “Master Varathorn didn’t have any in stock and I’ve only seen a handful of blackberry bushes since we entered this part of the forest.”

 

Conrí tore a chunk off a strip of jerky with his teeth. “We’ll talk to Bodahn when we finish up here,” he said after swallowing. “I’m sure he could find us a few jars.”

 

“I’d appreciate that, Commander,” Tira nodded.

 

“We can afford small luxuries,” Conrí grunted. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have any tobacco left. And then I’d be cranky.”

 

“Wait, so this is you content?” Garik snickered. 

 

Conrí rolled his eyes and finished his meal. After everyone had eaten as much as they dared, they continued deeper into the forest. A familiar growling voice echoed from the brush. “The forest was not vigilant enough, it seems. Still you come.”

 

With a roar, the red-brown furred form of Swiftrunner leapt from a position in the branches of a nearby tree above them and landed in front of the group, blocking their way forward. The werewolf gave them a scrutinizing look. “You… are stronger than we anticipated. The Dalish chose their tools well… but you do not belong here, outsider! Leave this place!”

 

“Why do you protect the source of the curse that afflicts you?” Alistair questioned. “Surely if Witherfang dies, it will set you free?”

 

“What lies have the treacherous Dalish told you?” the werewolf spat in answer. “What falsehoods has Zathrian told you to have you do his bidding?” 

 

“You still call the Dalish treacherous! You’re the ones who attacked them!” Serena protested. Swiftrunner glared at her, his red-rimmed eyes burning with fury.

 

“And they deserved nothing less!” the werewolf roared defiantly, before waving a dismissive hand at them. “Bah, it matters not! You have been sent by the treacherous Dalish to kill Witherfang, but I will never allow that to happen! Here, Witherfang protects us! Here, we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!”

 

Conrí drew his blade. “Stay together!” he barked. “Don’t let them separate us! We’ll be easy pickings otherwise!”

 

Serena raised her shield, axe at the ready as one of Swiftrunner’s kin rushed her, snarling and foaming at the mouth. Right before the beast could hit her, she lashed out with her shield, smashing it into the face of the werewolf. The beast was stunned long enough for Serena to lodge her axe into the side of its neck. She wrenched the bit out, letting the dead werewolf drop to the forest floor. 

 

Erin and her opponent, a slender tan werewolf, circled each other, patiently waiting for an opening. When the attack came, it was the wolf who initiated the flurry. The werewolf was able to avoid the twin blades of the youngest child of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, but the speed of her follow ups did not allow for counter attacks. Finally, the werewolf got impatient and swung wildly. This proved to be a fatal mistake as Erin ducked and at the same time, swung her off hand sword, letting the edge bit into the muscles of the beast’s thigh. The werewolf collapsed, yelping in pain. Erin slipped behind the werewolf, and with a careful thrust, drove the point of her main sword into the back of the wolf’s neck, severing the spine at the base of the skull. The werewolf went silent and limp instantly. 

 

Tristan grit his teeth and swung his staff horizontally, letting loose a wave of ice that froze three wolves in their tracks. Once he was sure they had been stopped, Tristan slammed the butt of his staff into the ground, summoning a trio of Stonefists to shatter the werewolves. At his back, Xolana had one hand wreathed in flames and the other in sparking lighting. She lashed out with both, one after the other, burning and shocking the beasts in front of her before combining them and increasing her mana flow. The trio she was facing was enveloped in fire and lightning.

 

Garik, the daring rouge he was, leapt on the back of one of the werewolves circling Xolana and Tristan, wrapping an arm around the creature’s thick neck and began squeezing. What the dwarf didn’t expect was the beast to begin thrashing, trying to dislodge him. After several long moments, Garik began to get dizzy and air sick. Before he could be ill, he repeatedly drove his dagger into the chest of the werewolf he was currently piggybacking. The beast fell forward, a last thrash managing to catch Conrí’s ankle. 

 

Conrí, who had been keeping Swiftrunner at bay with his quick swings, felt his leg twist from under him. He collapsed to one knee and this was all it took for Swiftrunner to take advantage. The reddish-brown werewolf immediately leapt at the kneeling warrior, intent on ripping his throat out. But Conrí managed to get his forearm up in time. Swiftrunner began biting and jerking his head amidst the sound of crunching metal and Conrí’s agonized screams. Just when Conrí was convinced Swiftrunner would tear his arm clean off, the wolf let go, pawing at his face while he yelped and whined in pain. With his unmangled hand, Conrí drew his belt knife and drove it into Swiftrunner’s exposed side before pushing the beast back.

 

It suddenly clicked in Conrí’s head. Somehow, his blood had become almost like acid to the werewolf. Perhaps a side effect of Avernus’s potion, he mused. Thinking quickly, he coated his knife blade with his own blood and moved in to finish Swiftrunner, once and for all. 

 

That’s when a large, white shape slammed into Conrí, knocking him back. A large wolf with a snow white pelt lined with grey markings reminiscent of vines stood before Conrí, barking and snarling. This had to be Witherfang, but before Conrí could capitalize, Witherfang howled and led the remaining wolves deeper into the forest. Conrí made to follow but was suddenly made aware of his wound again when he noticed it was burning like fire. He cradled his arm to his chest for a moment, gritting his teeth against the pain.

 

He wrenched his gauntlet off, eyeing the injury. Several lacerated puncture wounds lined both sides of his forearm, all of them already surrounded by black and blue bruises. “Sod...” he grunted before giving a dry chuckle. “Fitting, I suppose…”

 

Erin came to her brothers side and gasped when she saw the injuries. “Conrí... that... that looks terrible...!” it slowly dawned on her, and her bright grey eyes widened in abject horror. “Oh Maker's breath is that a BITE!? Wynne!!”

 

Conrí hissed as Wynne grabbed his mangled arm. “How long did Zathrian say this takes?” she asked, worry evident in her tone as her hands began glowing with ethereal blue light. 

 

“Days,” Conrí grunted as his skin began to nit back together. “I'll notice symptoms within the hour. Since I won't be in any condition to lead, Tira, you're in charge.”

 

Tira nodded hesitantly, caught a bit off guard. “But, Conrí... We need to get you back to the camp. Even if we carry on without you, it would be dangerous to take you along if you start being affected... most of all for yourself.”

 

Conrí pulled his gauntlet back on after Wynne finished healing his arm, leaving only a few scars. “I'll be fine. I think I can hold it off for a while at least,” he said, tightening the buckles. 

 

Tira looked like she wanted to argue the point, but then saw most of the group giving her a look and quieted down, looking most displeased.

 

“He's right, Tira,” Xolana sighed. “Bringing him back will only waste time, and who knows what might happen in the meantime... Besides, the best chance of actually finding a cure is to press on.”

 

“Not to be disagreeable,” Morrigan sighed wearily. “But I thought we had established there was no cure.”

 

Alistair immediately threw his hands in the air in annoyance. “Thank you, Morrigan,” he snapped. “We needed a voice of reason. Thank the Maker we had you with us.”

 

“Tira,” Conrí rumbled before the pair could star bickering. The Dalish elf quickly head slapped Morrigan and Alistair. “You'll be fine. Worse comes to worse, chain me to a tree until you find Witherfang.”

 

“Sten...” Xolana looked to the Qunari. “If my books weren't lying to me... your people have a history of... “watching” your mages, don't you? Perhaps you could spot our commander?” she looked around the group. “Would everyone feel more comfortable moving on if we handled it like that? And would you two mind?” she added to the pair of warriors.

 

“So long as he doesn't sew my mouth shut,” Conrí grumbled, flexing his fingers. The pain was more bearable but it hadn’t left. 

 

Sten nodded. “Come, Warden. We must make haste.”

 

Tira agreed, more certain of herself this time. “Let's press on. Good thinking, Xolana.”

 

“I thought you read only your horrible smut, Amell. Seems I was wrong,” Tristan tried to lighten the mood, but drew no smiles. Xolana elbowed the elf lightly, but without much humor due to the situation.

 

Conrí moved to follow with Sten. The rest of the day was quiet, all hoping the worst wouldn’t come to pass. Erin could barely keep herself from trembling in fear. She couldn’t lose her brother. Not after losing her parents. 

 

She endeavored to keep a close eye on him, and was the first to notice him begin to sweat, despite the cool weather and the slow pace. Not long after the sweating started, Conrí began to tremble and the color rapidly left his face. Nausea must be setting in, she thought. Her suspicions were confirmed when he stumbled off the path and vomited violently. 

 

To many around him, seeing Conrí in this state was like a kick to the stomach. As naïve as it was, they had almost begun to think the young man invulnerable. Now he was clutching a tree in a stubborn attempt to keep from collapsing. “That’s far enough for one day,” Tira ordered after Conrí finally finished emptying his stomach in the foliage. 

 

“We still have time before sundown,” Conrí argued, his voice scratchy. He quickly took a swig from his canteen and swished the water around in his mouth before spitting it out. “I can keep going,” he insisted, taking a pull of whiskey from his hip flask. 

 

“No,” Tira said firmly. “You need rest. And don’t forget, you put me in charge, Cousland. Now, we’ll make camp in the clearing just up here. Take your sleeping bag and lay down.”

 

Conrí scowled but did as he was told. He didn’t see Tira’s shoulders sag in relief. She’d been afraid his stubborn streak would rear up even worse, but he was already setting up his sleeping bag in the shade of a tall Dragonthorn tree. He’d removed the heavy plates of his armor, leaving him in his chain-backed leather chest piece. He fell asleep quickly, despite his protests. 

 

His slumber however was not peaceful. Barely an hour after closing his eyes, Conrí’s sweating intensified. He began trembling and muttering in his sleep. But perhaps most disturbingly were the feral growls that would come from his throat when one drew too near. Erin didn’t care. She grabbed a small basin from her pack and filled it with water from a nearby stream. She dunked a rag into the cool water, rung it out and brought both it and the basin over to her sleeping brother. The growls quickly quieted as she dabbed her brother’s forehead with the cool, wet rag. 

 

He woke briefly during supper, but only stayed awake long enough to drink a single bowl of broth before passing out once again. “I hope he can keep that down,” Erin sighed. She grabbed her own bedroll and set it up not far from her brother, close enough to be of use, yet far enough away to avoid any thrashing in the night. She leaned against a tree, content taking first watch so she could watch over her brother. 

 

Tira soon sat next to her, her bow leaning against the tree. “Are you alright?” Tira asked.

 

“Well, let’s see,” Erin droned. “I’m stuck in the middle of a haunted forest doing yet another chore for a group we have a treaty with, my brother’s been bitten by a creature that should only be legend, and we’re looking for the leader of said creatures to kill and take its heart so our ‘allies’ will live up to their end of a bargain. I’m wonderful, how are you?”

 

Tira took Erin’s sarcasm on the chin. “Not any better, if I’m honest.”

 

Erin sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I can’t lose Conrí too. Mother and Father were horrible enough. But to lose my brother… I couldn’t handle it.”

 

“He’s strong, Erin,” Tira insisted. “He’ll get through this. We just need to have faith in him.”

 

Erin groaned and leaned against Tira’s shoulder. “Faith is something I have a small supply of these days…”

 

Tira slipped an arm around Erin’s shoulder. “To be honest, it’s one of the few things that has been keeping me going. Ever since I had to leave my clan, I’ve had to keep faith in what I was doing was for the best. I didn’t want to leave, but I’d be dead or worse if I hadn’t.”

 

“Is this something the Dalish have over humans?” Erin chuckled. “Do they train their hunters to be annoyingly wise?”

 

“Consider it something I picked up along the way,” Tira smiled. 

 

Erin rested her cheek on Tira’s shoulder. “Thanks for dealing with my idiot drama. I appreciate it, Tira.”

 

Tira swallowed hard. “There… is a way you can make it up to me…”

 

“Oh?” Erin looked up. “And what would that be?”

 

“Don’t... don’t run,” Tira whispered, leaning in and gently kissing Erin’s lips.

 

Erin’s eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly relaxed into the kiss. Tira, emboldened by Erin’s favorable reaction, deepened the kiss and pulled the tie from Erin’s hair so she could run her fingers through it. Erin sighed happily into the kiss before pulling Tira onto her lap. Tira squeaked slightly, blushing at her reaction to Erin’s movements. Erin didn’t seem to mind as she pulled the Dalish elf closer, nipping gently at Tira’s soft lips, all the while tracing the designs on Tira’s checks with her callused fingers. 

 

Tira quickly lost all sense of time in the kiss, eagerly sucking on Erin’s tongue as the warrior’s hands moved to the exposed skin of her belly. As they began to venture higher of their own accord, Erin realized what was happening and broke the kiss. Tira, breathless and disappointed, pouted slightly. “Why did you stop?” she whined. 

 

Erin, equally breathless, kissed the corner of Tira’s mouth. “As much as I would delight in continuing, love, we have to keep watch. Don’t want anything nasty sneaking up on us when our commander is down.”

 

Tira’s pout intensified. “Now who’s being annoyingly wise.” Erin chuckled, not moving to take Tira off her lap. “So… how did you learn to use two swords? Are you ambidextrous?”

 

“Oh, no,” Erin shook her head. “My story is much more mundane. I was originally being trained to use a sword and shield. When I was training with one of the castle knights, he shattered the training sword I was using and broke my arm. I couldn’t use a shield on my right, so I learned how to use a sword again in my left hand. Oh, that was fun.”

 

The pair talked late into the night before the next shift took their place. What the pair didn’t see was Conrí watching through heavy eyes. As he drifted off again, it was with a small smile on his face. Despite the werewolf disease in his system, Conrí’s dreams were less horrific.

 


	26. Into the Forest's Heart

 

“We are invaded!” a grey Werewolf growled to its brethren a few days later as the group came into view. “Intruders have deceived their way to the forest's heart! Fall back to the ruin! Protect the Lady!” the beast gave a howl and charged back into the forest.

 

“And again they run,” Conrí growled in frustration. Over the past 48 hours, Conrí’s nausea and vomiting had trailed off, replaced by irritability and a much shorter temper. He’d even gotten into an argument with Tira the night before and left a portion of the bark on a pine tree cracked by his metal encased fist. He then stormed off into the forest and was found about an hour later still fuming but more reasonable.

 

Erin overheard her brother’s angry growl. “Brother...” she muttered, worried but was then distracted by an attack she had to fend off. A group of darkspawn had managed to avoid the werewolves and was now assaulting the group.

 

Conrí didn’t even draw his blade and tossed a Genlock into a tree like it was nothing. With a brittle crunch of its spine, Conrí turned back to seize a Hurlock by both arms as it swung its poorly made axes at him. With a dark growl, he planted a boot in its chest and strained as he pulled towards himself. With the sound of tearing flesh and metal, the screaming Hurlock’s arms came off in a spray of black blood. 

 

His fighting had brought Conrí close to Xolana and she noticed Conrí’s brutality. “Conrí...” she breathed. “Conrí! Control yourself, focus!” she incinerated a small group and tossed aside another to make a beeline towards Conrí while the fighting continues around them. Conrí meanwhile grabbed the screaming Hurlock and twisted its head all the way around, allowing the corpse to fall to the group. “Sten, help me!” Xolana called, trying to catch Sten's attention, who was engaged in fighting as well. She fight through the last enemy between herself and Conrí. She thrust her belt knife deep into a Hurlock's throat and shouldered it out of the way. She grabbed Conrí by the shoulders and tried to catch his eyes, gasping when she saw the whites of his eyes had turned an obsidian black while the irises had gained unholy blue glow. “Conrí, think! Remember. Stay in control! This is not you - you are Conrí Cousland! Remember what that means! Snap out of it!”

 

Conrí glared at the mage, his teeth grit and to her further horror, Xolana saw his canines had lengthened into fangs. After a long glare, Conrí’s eyes closed and he began to slow his breathing. When he opened them again, Conrí’s eyes had returned to normal.

 

Xolana let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding with relief. Sten managed to arrive as well, towering over the pair. “Warden, you worry your comrades.”

 

“I worry myself, Sten,” Conrí sighed, gingerly running his tongue over his canines. “But, I’m alright now. We still have work to do.”

 

“Conrí...” Xolana sounded extremely worried now. “Please, I beg you, go back to the camp... The adrenaline is probably just exacerbating the affliction...”

 

Conrí shook his head with an annoyed grunt. “Xolana, you know Zathrian would just kill me if I went back. Call it a ‘mercy killing.’”

 

Xolana cringed. That was not something she wanted to hear.

 

“I'm in control, Xolana,” rather than the near feral growl it had been moments earlier, Conrí’s voice had returned to is normal smooth cadence. 

 

Sten silently nodded and put a hand on Xolana shoulder, surprising the mage and gesturing that they needed to carry on with the other. “You are wise, more so than you allow others to see most of the time, but your emotions cloud this strength. I promise to keep a closer eye on the Commander. But you must continue to fight.”

 

Xolana was silent for a long moment, then forced herself to nod. “Ok. Don't you dare lose yourself, Conrí!” not waiting for a reply, she turned to follow the others onwards again.

 

“Is everyone alright?” Tira asked, having spied Conrí’s uncharacteristic violence. “We still haven't managed to talk to any of the wolves... We will have to force our way into the heart of their pack, find this ‘Lady’ they keep talking about...”

 

“Aye,” Conrí nodded. “Just tell me what to do.”

 

“For now, keep in formation and continue pressing forward,” Tira instructed. “When we reach their stronghold, depending on the architecture it might be wisest to split up and attack in a pincer formation... but for now we have to reach them. Wynne, is everyone ready to keep going?”  


Wynne, having healed a couple of minor cuts and bruises on several of the party members, smiled slightly. “We will be alright for now.”

 

Garik chuckled. “I could get used to taking orders from a pretty lass instead of Mr. Grouchy-pants.”

 

“May I?” Conrí asked, glaring at Garik.

 

Tira smirked as the dwarf shot her a pleading look. “Go ahead, though I could get used to being in charge too, you know.”

 

Conrí grinned evilly and head slapped Garik, making the rogue yelp. “I figured you'd be changing your tune. Lead on, Tira.”

 

* * *

 

The group continued even deeper into the ancient wood. Other than a few flares of temper and the occasional bout of nausea and sickness, Conrí had managed to keep himself composed, even though the pain had spread from his forearm, up his shoulder into his upper back. 

 

They came upon the ruins of what looked like an ancient elven temple. “Old. Overgrown. Smells like wet dog,” Conrí commented. “Yeah, I’d say this is the werewolves' lair.”

 

Xolana, attempting to sound cheery, shot back, “Still smells better than Kiba and Koun!” The mabari barked in offence.

 

“Better than Dust Town, too,” Garik grumbled. He was getting rather tired of the woods. He was a dwarf, after all. Frolicking in a forest was an elf thing.

 

“Quiet and alert, now,” Tira ordered, her bow at the ready. “We're in the heart of their territory - we have to be ready for anything.”

 

Conrí quickly gazed around at the structure. “Tira, if I could offer some advice?” he said after a moment.

 

“You are still the commander,” Tira acknowledged.

 

“Leave me and Sten at the front. I'm already bitten so I’ve little to worry about. And Sten has much thicker armor than I do. The rest of you hang back and pick them off while we handle melee.”

 

Tira considered this, then nodded. “That sounds reasonable,” she agreed. “If Sten agrees, of course.”

 

“It seems logical,” Sten rumbled. “We have the heaviest armor and the longest reach. The Commander has put you in charge, however. The final choice is yours.”

 

“Alright. Conrí and Sten, take point,” Tira instructed. “The rest of you, long-range weapons wherever possible. Let's go.”

 

“There is old magic at work, here...” Morrigan breathed, mostly to the other mages who could actually infer appropriate behavior in response.

 

Conrí drew his sword as they approached the entrance. “I can smell them,” he rasped. “There's a pair of weres in the first room. It might be an ambush.”

 

“Did he just-,” Xolana was cut off by a look from Tristan as he raised his staff.

 

“Let us cast some long-range trap spell before you all go storming in,” he suggested.

 

“I didn't know Trap Glyphs were in your arsenal, Surana,” Conrí grunted. He’d almost ripped the elf’s head off after the last encounter with a group of undead when Tristan’s fire spell had once again caught Conrí in the blast.

 

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Not just trap glyphs can be set up to be useful as trap spells. Now let us do our jobs?” 

 

Conrí grunted again and moved away from the door way. Within a couple of minutes, between Morrigan, Xolana and Tristan, a Trap Glyph had been combined with elemental spells to create a truly devastating trap should any enemies attempt to force an attack through the door.

 

“'Tis done,” Morrigan said finally. “Your Elementals are sealed with my Glyph.”

 

“Tira, your cue,” Xolana nodded to the Dalish Elf.

 

Tira returned the nod. “Garik, open the door carefully and then fall back behind Conrí and Sten. No one moves forward until the trap has been triggered and you're not in danger of falling for it!” she trained her bow on the door, together with everyone else and their distance weapons.

 

Conrí frowned as he press against a wall. “I hear something... that's not werewolves... it sounds.... like a rattling.”

 

“Well, whatever it is,” Garik muttered, opening the door. “It's in for a hell of a surprise.”

 

The rattling got louder and an inhuman screech echoed through the chamber. “Undead!” Conrí barked.

 

“Good thing we added fire to the trap...” Xolana grumbled. “Here they come!”

 

As the first skeleton approached the trap, it went up in an explosion of fire, ice and nature damage that burst through the initial wave skeletons, though more were quick to follow through the smoke.

 

Garik back handed a skeleton, knocking its head off and the body dropped to the ground. “Take the heads! The body stops working!”

 

“Or burn them if you can!” Xolana paused as realization hit her. “Wait... of course! Tristan, cover me!” she fell back for a few moments while she started mumbling an incantation to cover everyone's weapons in vicious flames.

 

Alistair almost dropped his sword in shock before recovering. “A bit of warning would have been nice you know!” 

 

“You should be used to this by now,” Garik snarked as he slashed through a skeleton.

 

Conrí took huge sweeping swings, driving the skeletons back before lunging in and taking the heads off three in one swing as Erin tossed a pair of daggers into a pair of Skeletons, then drew her bow and began peppering the remaining undead. 

 

By the time they had cleared out the undead, the werewolves had heard the scramble and made for the door at the bottom of the stairs. Conrí got to the door, they had closed and barricaded it. He kicked it in frustration, a quiet growl slipping out. “Bastards,” he grumbled. 

 

“There’s bound to be another way in,” Tira assured the agitated warrior. “These temples are usually built to have back exits and such. We’ll keep looking.”

 

“As you wish,” Conrí muttered, sending one last petulant glare at the door before following the Dalish.

 

They trudged up the long staircase, back to the entry hall, and moved through the main passage into the ruin. Almost immediately, they discovered that the ruin was home to more than werewolves.

 

Erin had not realized immediately what the long white cords were. She touched one, expecting to feel silken plant fiber, and was disgusted when it clung to her hand, finally snapping away with a dull, low vibration. A strange clicking filled the air. Koun nearly jumped, uttering an undignified squeal. When the bloated bodies scuttled out of the side passage, Erin swore.

 

“Andraste's bloody knickers! Spiders!" she shouted. "Bloody big spiders! Xolana! Freeze them!"

 

Conrí, Serena and Garik had seen creatures like these before. These were not exactly like the spiders either in Lothering or in the Deep Roads: they were smaller, a little bigger than a mabari. Aside from that, they seemed equally intent on having Warden for dinner. Glittering black eyes fixed on prey. Xolana's spells worked better than Tira's arrows. Erin hacked at furry legs, disabling them, and then plunged her sword into the grotesque bodies. One by one the spiders fell, twitching, and turned belly-up.

 

"That was nasty," Xolana shuddered.

 

"They are disgusting," Tira agreed, crouching down by one, and digging out the poison gland with her dagger. "Their poison can be useful, however."

 

Conrí grimaced, but acknowledged the potency of the beasts’ venom. Poison wasn’t his thing, however, and he handed the vials he’d taken to Tira and Garik who would get much more use out of it. They quickly made their way deeper into the temple.

 

* * *

 

Conrí gripped his forearm with a hiss as the group rounded a corner a few hours later. He pulled his gauntlet off again, grimacing as he noticed how his veins had turned bloody red and stood out alarmingly. The curse was progressing all too rapidly. 

 

“Conrí...” Xolana was getting increasingly worried, and looked to Morrigan. “Don't you have anything with you that could at least ease his pain? Or you, Wynne?”

 

“The pain comes from the curse,” Wynne explained. “I could numb the area, but that might do more harm than good. He wouldn't be able to tell if he was injured.”

 

Tristan was distracted by something through a small doorway. “Uh... guys? I know we have to press on but I really feel we should check out this room for a second, if you're done worrying over injuries you can't heal right now...”

 

“He's right,” Conrí bit out, as the throbbing subsided. “Don't worry about me. I can live with it.”

 

“It's strange...” Wynne mumbled. “I feel something... vaguely familiar in that room.”

 

Xolana cocked her head as she approached the room as well. “Do.... all of you feel it?” she asked as shed started inching into the room carefully alongside Tristan who already took the first few steps.

 

“I feel it as well....” Morrigan nodded.

 

“Magic of some kind,” Alistair confirmed. “Old. Powerful. But... it doesn't feel malevolent.”

 

Tristan, still next to Xolana, spotted something among the debris strewn about. A small crystalline vial lay amid the splintered remains of a crate. “Hey I... I think it's coming from here...”

 

Xolana stared in fascination as she nodded in agreement. “Seems to be it,” she turned to call the others over as Tristan reached out his hand to pick it up.

 

“What in the Maker's name is that?” Conrí asked, flexing his hands to discourage the aches in his arm.

 

“Some kind of phylactery if I was to hazard a guess,” Wynne contemplated.

 

“Is that blood?” Alistair asked. “Who's, I wonder... and how is it still.... well, bloody after all this time?”

 

“I don't... OH!” Tristan was cut off as he picked up the vial now and was flooded by the consciousness that had laid dormant in the vial as it attempted to communicate with him.

 

“Tristan!?” Xolana squeaked in fear, trying to pull the phylactery out of his hand, afraid it had done something to him, but then let out a surprised gasp as the consciousness included her in the communication. She quickly calmed down completely.

 

“What the void?!”

 

“It's ok, Conrí,” Xolana assured him. “It's just a spirit. An old, trapped, lonely spirit. It means no harm.”

 

“He - I think it's a he - has been stuck here for an unbelievably long time...” Tristan muttered. “Some of these images, these memories, are so old, it is hard to believe...” he trailed off and started nodding with understanding. “Of course, spirit. No wonder that's what you ask for... I understand.”

 

“One of you magey types wanna clue in the mundanes around here?” Garik snarked.

 

“I'll explain in more detail in a second but... the main point is, this poor spirit wants to die,” Xolana explained. “He still has memories of a great fighting style for mages though, one long since forgotten...”

 

“Would you share with us before you go, spirit?” Tristan asked. “Such knowledge should not be lost forever.”

 

Conrí sighed, letting go of his claymore. “This had better be good,” he grumbled, not trusting the idea of spirits speaking to the mages.

 

Tristan and Xolana appeared to go into a sort of trance, holding onto the phylactery for a minute.

 

“Why must these kids always risk themselves so...” Wynne fretted.

 

“I for my part am quite intrigued to hear what they find,” Morrigan snipped.

 

The pair eventually came back to and shake their heads out of the trance. They stare in wonderment at the phylactery before smiling at each other with a nod. “Thank you, spirit,” Tristan said. “May you find peace.”

 

“May your Creators guide you, wherever you may go,” Xolana added. Together, the pair placed the phylactery on the altar to free the spirit. The vial shattered, letting loose a small blast of magic.

 

“Ooookay,” Tira droned. “What was that?”

 

“A spirit was trapped in that vial,” Alistair guessed. “Am I right?”

 

Xolana nodded. “It is as Alistair says. And not just any spirit.”

 

“Like we said, he was old,” Tristan continued. “But you can't even comprehend HOW old.”

 

“Suffice it to say... we'll need someone to teach us blade fighting,” Xolana sent a toothy grin at Tristan with a bit of an elbow to his side. “Stick them with the pointy end is the first lesson, I should think!”

 

“Wait,” Erin held up her hands. “You're telling me that spirit was once a warrior?”

 

“Yes, of sorts,” Xolana confirmed. “He was a... a mage though. A mage warrior...” she stopped, trying to find the word.

 

Tristan was more confident. “An Arcane Warrior,” he concluded.

 

Erin eyebrows rose. “That could be useful. I'd gather, though, that you still need practical training?”

 

Xolana nodded. “He taught us how to channel our magic through weapons instead of staffs, amongst other things that can transfer our powers to warrior or rogue armor and weaponry. He even taught us a skill that would allow us to transform our magical powers to physical strength.”

 

“But to actually use the blades,” Tristan sighed. “We will still need to train, just like any of you had to learn to use your swords and daggers.”

 

Conrí nodded. “Well when we finish here, we'll see what we have to work with.”

 

“I don't mean to interrupt,” Tira cut in. “But if we want to be able to finish here, we should press on.”

 

“Of course,” Xolana blushed. “Sorry that took so long.”

 

Deeper in the ruins, they managed to find their way into an ancient elven burial chamber. Tira informed them that the ancient elves would grow to such an age that they would enter a dreaming state called Uthenera when they became weary of life. It was in this burial chamber that they found the last pieces of the Juggernaut armor. “I must admit, I never thought all the pieces could be found,” Xolana whispered, running a hand over the still shining surface of the breastplate. “The enchantments on this armor is powerful, Commander. It’ll be useful when you can use it, of that I have no doubt.”

 

Outside the chamber stood a light grey werewolf. The beast seemed barely able to stay on its feet, and rather than lunging at the group in a feral rage, it seemed to be in utter agony.

 

“Please, help! Listen! I am not… the mindless beast I appear to be!” the werewolf rasped in a pleading voice that was still recognizable as female.

 

“You are one of the Dalish who succumbed to the curse?” Erin asked.

 

The werewolf nodded her shaggy head. “Yes, scant days ago,” she choked. “So you know what happened to us?” Erin nodded in reply and the werewolf continued. “If you know what became of us, I assume you have been sent after Witherfang?”

 

“Have you seen it?” Erin questioned.

 

The werewolf again nodded, but she desperately seized the front of Erin’s armor and said in a hoarse whisper, “I have, but you must listen: it is not what you think. But there is no time to explain; I am dying; if not of my wounds, then I will perish of the curse. I will tell you what I can of what you will face inside the ruins, but I ask a boon in return.”

 

“Then tell me what you know.”

 

“You will find Witherfang in the deepest recesses of the ruins, but the werewolves will think you mean to kill them all. They will fight you every step of the way… they are no longer mindless animals. They have overcome the curse… and they will protect Witherfang to the very end. That… is all I can tell you, shemlen...” she finished, her voice fading away to a ragged croak.

 

“What boon do you ask in return?”

 

In answer, the werewolf reached out and placed something soft into his gauntleted hand; looking down, he saw the werewolf had given him what looked to be a scarf of red silk, tattered and frayed, but still recognizable. “Give that to my husband; he is at our camp, his name is Athras. Give him my love, and tell him I am at peace.”

 

Tira, who had been watching from the side, strode forward angrily. “Are you Dalish or not?” she demanded. Danyla blinked, momentarily distracted from her pain. “How can you call yourself thus if you succumb so easily?! Especially when a human,” she pointed at Conrí. “Has been suffering the same curse for nigh on a week without letting it overcome him!”

 

“What would you have me do, sister?” Danyla panted. “The curse is a fire in my blood! I cannot bear it!”

 

“Never again shall we submit!” Tira barked. “That is the oath of the Dales. We submit to nothing and no one. Including this curse!” Danyla’s head lowered and a pitiful whine rose from her throat. Tira stepped closer and embraced her cursed sister, petting her shaggy head. “You are stronger than you realize, Danyla,” she continued softly. “We will be swift as possible, but I need you to fight this.”

 

“I… I will try, sister,” Danyla mumbled. “But I implore you, when you find the others, please. Listen.”

 

“You have my word, lethallan.”

 

Danyla raised her head. “If you don’t mind, sheml…. My friend… could I have my scarf back?”

 

Erin nodded, wrapping the cloth around Danyla’s thick neck. “Stay safe, Danyla.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

“Grr. Stop!” the grey werewolf from before barked as the Wardens and their companions approached the final door leading to the deepest chamber of the ruins. “Brothers and Sisters! Be at ease. We do not wish anymore of our people hurt. I, Gatekeeper, have come to ask you, stranger. Are you willing to parlay?”

 

Conrí crossed his arms, trying to ignore the near agonizing pain in his forearm and looked to Tira. 

 

The Ranger nodded. She was still in charge, after all. “We're talking now, aren't we?” Tira told the werewolf.

 

“Not with me,” Gatekeeper shook his head. “The Lady wishes to speak with you, provided your willingness to parlay is an honest one.”

 

“If you were willing to talk before, why attack us?” Tristan asked, resting the butt of his staff on the cracked stone beneath his feet.

 

“Swiftrunner did not think it would matter,” Gatekeeper grumbled. “The Lady disagrees. She believes you do not know everything you should. Since you have gotten this far, we have no choice but to do as she asks.”

 

Xolana eyed Conrí, seeing the tension in his body. He had taken a ghostly pallor as well. “I'm for talking,” she said finally.

 

“This could be a trap, ya know,” Tristan pointed out.

 

“I dunno,” Garik disagreed. “I can usually smell those for miles away. I think they're honest.”

 

“I think it's worth the risk. Tira?” Conrí turned to his current lead. 

 

Tira nodded. “Danyla seemed to believe everything was not as it seems. Very well. Take us to your Lady, Gatekeeper.”

 

Gatekeeper nodded but his brow furrowed as he glared. “Be warned stranger. Should you break your word and harm our Lady, I will come back from the fade itself to see you pay,” with a final growl, he turned and opened the door leading deeper into the ruins.

 

“Great,” Xolana mumbled. “We don't trust them, they don't trust us... makes me wonder how much earnest talking we'll get done.”

 

“Aye,” Conrí sighed. “We can only uphold our end, however.”

 

“Come on,” Tira trailed after Gatekeeper.

 

At the bottom of the stairs was a round chamber whose walls were deeply penetrated by massive roots. Light shined through a gaping hole in the roof, no doubt caused by the numerous trees growing around the back of the temple. It appeared that the last of the werewolves were here: perhaps two or three dozen in number. Some were growling and defiant: some cringing and terrified.

 

Swiftrunner stood at the front, snarling and roaring in hate. Just as it seemed he would attack, a strange woman approached. She was fair and slender. but with skin as green as young shoots and twined with brown roots. She was nearly naked, save for the thin, brown branches twisting up from her thighs and curving around her breasts. Her long, straight hair was dark, and her eyes a deep obsidian with slightly lighter irises. Her hands rested on the shoulders of two of the werewolves, Swiftrunner and a second, this one deep grey. It was then they noticed the woman’s fingers ended in leafless twigs. The beasts knelt in submission and the rest followed suit.

 

“I bid you welcome, Mortals,” the woman spoke, her voice as ancient and powerful as the temple around her. “I am the Lady of the Forest.”

 

“Not... what I expected, won't lie,” Tristan admitted.

 

Xolana pulled her hand away from the general direction of a snapping and growling werewolf. “...truly enchanted,” she said, sounding unimpressed.

 

Tira glared at the pair to be silent. “Thank you for offering to parlay, Lady. We are glad to talk.”

 

“You cannot trust her, Lady!” Swiftrunner bayed. “She will betray you! We must kill her now!”

 

Before anyone could say a word, Conrí stepped forward, his eyes bleeding to black again. “I’ll see you dead first!” he snarled. Koun barked and growled at his side. 

 

“Peace,” the Lady gestured softly. “Swiftrunner, your urge for battle has only hastened the death of the very ones you sought to protect. Is that what you want?”

 

If a werewolf could look ashamed, Swiftrunner did at that moment. “No, my lady. Anything but that.”

 

“It is time to set aside our rage, to speak with these outsiders,” the Lady continued. “And I see this one has fallen victim to the very curse that plagues you and your brethren. That he has not turned is amazing. This is the one who fell victim to your teeth then, Swiftrunner.

 

“Yeah... about that...” Xolana was silenced once again by a glare from Tira.

 

“It is true,” Tira acknowledged. “We were hoping there was a cure, though I understand should you not wish to share... if there even is one. But that is not the only reason we came...”

 

“We cannot cure him,” the Lady shook her head. “But I can help delay it. His own willpower has carried him far, but I shall assist him. She turned back to Conrí. “What is your name?”

 

Conrí, still suspicious, allowed his eyes to find the Lady’s. “Conrí,” he grunted finally. 

 

The Lady’s eyes widened. “I see. Then I can help you, but in the end, the will to keep the beast back is your greatest asset,” she said, running a hand down Conrí’s cheek, the black fading and the glow receding from his eyes.

 

Conrí blinked, his eyes going to his ruined gauntlet. The pain had faded greatly and was now no worse than a bruise. It had also receded from most of his upper body.

 

“How much time will this buy him?” Tira asked hesitantly.

 

“I do not know,” the Lady admitted. “But no doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things Zathrian has not told you.”

 

“How do you know what he has or hasn't told us?” Conrí asked, all hostility leaving his voice.

 

“Because there are things that he will never tell you,” the Lady sighed. “Things you must decide for yourself if you need to know them or not. It was Zathrian who created the curse that these creatures suffer. The same curse that Zathrian’s own people now suffer... And you as well, Conrí.”

 

And so the Lady and Swiftrunner told of the events that lead to Zathrian’s creation of the curse. A clan of human’s had attacked the clan. His son was killed brutally and his daughter raped. The girl would later end her own life when she discovered she was with child.

 

Conrí slumped against a pillar. “Andraste’s ass…”

 

Xolana shook her head sadly. “I understand his rage, but this…”

 

“Zathrian raised a terrible spirit from the forest, binding it in the body of a great wolf, whom you know as Witherfang,” the Lady continued. “This creature hunted the humans. Some he killed, and some survived his attacks, but the curse passed to them. They became werewolves: savage monsters preying on loved ones and strangers alike. The human tribe fled the forest, leaving behind their cursed kin.

 

“Many generations have lived and died as werewolves,” Swiftrunner took over. “Other humans, traveling through the forest, have become infected by ill chance.” 

 

“The actual perpetrators of the crime against Zathrian's children, of course, are long since dead and dust,” the Lady conlucded. “And so the werewolves have lived in this forest for almost two centuries: pitiful mindless beasts.”

 

"Until you came, my lady," rumbled Swiftrunner. "You gave us peace."

 

The Lady nodded thoughtfully. "I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. As you see, they have come to have a society of their own. They have learned speech, and struggle to live as rationally as their werewolf nature allows them. They have taken names. They have regained, if not their memories of their former lives, as least their minds."

 

“Is that why the werewolves attacked Zathrian's clan? For revenge?” Alistair asked.

 

Another, considered nod. “In part. We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian's children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead. For years now, we have tried to speak to Zathrian when his landships passed this way, and he has ignored us.” The Lady’s gentle, lovely face tightened into a fierce scowl. “We will no longer be denied!”

 

“We spread the curse to his people, so he must end the curse to save them!” Swiftrunner rasped.

 

“You also spread it to those who were outside this little quarrel,” Erin snapped. She was sympathetic to the werewolves’ plight, but her brother may well become one of them because of Swiftrunner’s bloodlust.

 

Swiftrunner scowled, then sighed. “It was not my intention to spread the curse to your kin, warrior. I… lost myself.”

 

The Lady locked her gaze with Tira’s, those alien black eyes boring into the elf, and spoke in a pleading tone. “Please mortal, you must go to him. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight, surely he will agree to end the curse.”

 

“I have spoken with Zathrian, and personally, I feel he will brook no other solution than curing his own people,” Tira sadly replied.

 

“Zathrian despises us!” Swiftrunner barked. “He will never break the curse, Lady! He will never allow it, you know this!” 

 

The Lady, however, looked stricken at such a thought, “We… we can’t know that, Swiftrunner. Surely his rage doesn’t run so deep he would endanger his own clan?”

 

“Even if hatred has not robbed the elf of reason, creature, what cause would he have to come willingly into the stronghold of his enemies?” Sten questioned. 

 

Conrí had to agree: Zathrian had made his antipathy for the werewolves quite clear; it was doubtful any reason they might give would provide the Keeper any reason to come to the ruin.

 

The Lady gave a smile that said clearly she knew something they didn’t. “Because if Zathrian comes, qunari, I will summon Witherfang. I possess that power... I also possess the power to ensure that the Great Wolf is never found,” she finished coldly, her voice possessing a touch of steel as she fixed Tira with her imposing gaze. “Tell Zathrian this, mortal. If he doesn’t come, if he does not break the curse, he will never find Witherfang… and he will never cure his people.”

 

* * *

 

“And here you all are already,” an all too familiar voice echoed through the entrance hall as the group emerged from the deepest chamber.

 

Conrí grunted to himself as he spied the aged elf. “Somehow, I knew we'd find you here.

 

Zathrian smirked. “Is that so. Aren't you the intuitive one? Have you collected the heart?”

 

Garik leaned into Xolana ‘casually’, grumbling. “Is it just me or do I suddenly not have such a good feeling about the guy?”

 

Xolana twirled her belt knife equally ‘casually’ in her hand. “Nope,” she whispered. “I'm with you there.”

 

Tira approached the keeper warily. “Zathrian... you withheld some information from us before sending us here.”

 

“Indeed,” Wynne agreed. “Why did you not inform us of these ruins?”

 

“There was no need,” Zathrian evaded. “I knew you would discover them on your own. But it seems the spirit has convinced you to speak on her behalf. What does she want?”

 

Tristan scoffed. “Convenient, now he wants to talk.”

 

“What do you think she wants?” Erin asked grimly, crossing her arms.

 

“To survive, I expect,” Zathrian snorted. “That is the nature of all such creatures; the will to survive. You do understand that she actually is Witherfang?”

 

“I suspected as much, yes,” Tira nodded. It made sense. How else would the Lady of the Forest be able to hide the wolf so efficiently?

 

“She is the spirit of this ancient forest that was summoned and bound within the body of the great wolf,” Zathrian explained. “Her nature is that of the forest; beautiful and terrible, serene and savage, maiden and beast. She is the Lady and Witherfang both; two sides of a single being. The curse came from her, but those afflicted mirrored her own nature, becoming savage beast as well as human.”

 

“The curse was your creation first, elf,” Sten growled.

 

“I don't know, she spoke in a really rather civilized manner to us,” Xolana grumbled. “In fact, with a lot more compassion and less omission of fact than you so far.”

 

“Really? She sent her pets on my clan, and they are the same savages then as they have ever been. You consider this civilized? The beasts deserve to be wiped out, not defended!”

 

Xolana grimaced and turned back to Garik. “Does he REALISE that he's sounding less and less loving and more and more like a beast himself the more he speaks!?”

 

Zathrian ignored the mage. “I will accompany you back into the ruins and force the spirit into Witherfang’s form. He may then be slain and the heart taken!”

 

“Keeper, that is not necessary,” Tira argued. “The werewolves have regained their minds, I assure you...”

 

“Whether or not that is true, they are still the same worthless savages that their ancestors were,” Zathrian scoffed, earning a glare from all the human’s present. “You are Dalish. Tira. Why defend the creatures attacking your people? Let us just take the heart and be done with it.”

 

Tristan eyebrow twitched. “Do you even realize what you're saying!? You are punishing people.... PEOPLE, ZATHRIAN... Elvhen or human or whatever else doesn't even matter, but PEOPLE... who were born CENTURIES after whatever has scarred you so happened! What if I was a werewolf and killed your child because YOU cursed me? Or your grandchild? Were they at fault?!”

 

“YOU WERE NOT THERE, FLAT EAR!” Zathrian roared. “YOU DID NOT SEE WHAT THEY DID TO MY SON! MY DAUGHTER!”

 

“They kill your children, you curse them and all their descendants for eternity,” Morrigan remarked. “Seems reasonable to me.”

 

Xolana unable to even tell if the witch was being sarcastic or not, cut in, “So now you cast the same pain onto people who were born generations later and do not even KNOW the original crime?”

 

Tira held up a hand to quiet everyone. “Zathrian, what I propose is you come and talk with the Spirit.”

 

Zathrian grumbled. “I see little point in this, but very well. You wish me to talk, I will talk,” he spun around and marched towards the lair.

 

Conrí leaned over to Sten. “He makes one wrong move... Kill him.” The Qunari nodded, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

 

“By the stone, this is gonna get ugly,” Garik sighed.

 

* * *

 

“And so here you are spirit,” Zathrian sneered as he approached the dais.

 

Swiftrunner darted forward, snarling angrily. “She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!”

 

“You’ve taken a name, spirit?” Zathrian asked disdainfully. “And you’ve given names to your pets, these beasts that follow you?”

 

Behind the Keeper, bother Tristan and Garik were forcibly restraining Xolana, who had been overcome with the urge to dropkick the belligerent keeper after he had agreed to come down peacefully and talk. 

 

“It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian,” the Lady dissented gently. “And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them discover who they are.”

 

“Who they are hasn’t changed from whom their ancestors were! Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!”

 

“He will not help us, Lady!” Swiftrunner growled. “It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!”

 

“What do you expect? We both know how this will end. Your nature compels it, as does mine.”

 

Tira beseechingly stepped between them. “Please, everyone, calm down now. Zathrian, you promised you would talk. That includes listening to what they have to say!”

 

Zathrian scowled.

 

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” the Lady implored. “There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian. Surely your retribution is spent?”

 

“My retribution is eternal, as is my pain, spirit,” Zathrian sneered. “This is justice, no more!”

 

The Lady’s expression became cool. “Are you certain your pain is the only reason you will not end the curse? Have you told the mortal how it was created? I believe one in particular would be very interested…” Conrí’s eyes narrowed at Zathrian.

 

“What do you mean?” Erin asked.

 

“Oh. I see how it is,” Morrigan snickered. “I thought there was a rather incredible amount of power involved here for one single magician to use alone...”

 

“This is an old forest, mortal, and I am its spirit, its heart,” the Lady continued. “I was not summoned from across the Fade, but pulled from the rocks, the trees and the very soil. I was then bound into the body of the wolf who became Witherfang: not possessing a host like a sylvan or one of the undead, but bound into a single being. But such a process could not have been accomplished without Zathrian’s blood… a great deal of his blood. The curse and his life… are intertwined.”

 

“You bastard...” Conrí’s eyes began to darken again. This was why he refused to break the curse. He would die without it. The coward…

 

“Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors,” the Lady growled. “But that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.”

 

Tira grabbed a hold of Conrí as the warrior bared his teeth. “For once I say let the man at him!” Tristan crowed.

 

“Just how far are you willing to go for vengeance, Zathrian?” Tira spat.

 

“I did it for my son, for my daughter!” Zathrian cried. “For them, for justice, I would do anything!”

 

“The curse would not end with Zathrian’s death,” the Lady went on softly. “His life, however, relies on its existence and I believe his death plays a part in its ending.”

 

“I know dark magic all too intimately,” Xolana sneered. “And this smells like bad juju. In fact, it STINKS of it. I do believe your clan would have some choice words for you, Zathrian, should they find out about what's really going on here.”

 

“Then you agree!” Swiftrunner howled. “We kill him! We tear him apart now!”

 

“For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still!” Zathrian snarled. “What would you gain from killing me? Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never do it! Assist me now, Tira. And I may deign to include your... pet in the spell.”

 

Xolana pushed past her breaking point, summoned a ring of fire around Zathrian so he had to be careful about his next move. “WHAT did you just call our commander you disgusting, sad excuse for a Keeper!?”

 

“You think this frightens me, witch?” Zathrian snapped.

 

Tira’s eyes hardened. This had gone too far. Zathrian was no true Keeper. She turned to Conrí and nodded.

 

Conrí drew his sword and stabbed it between the cobblestones before he began removing his armor. His eyes drifted closed as his gauntlets hit the floor.

 

“And just what are planning to do, beast?” Zathrian growled.

 

“You know Zathrian…” Conrí breathed. “I’ve been silent for much of this little side-show. But now…” he cast aside his breastplate. “You are going to break the curse.”

 

“Is that so? And what will you do if I don’t?”

 

Conrí opened his eyes, revealing them to be black pits with a shining blue in the center. A feral grin crossed his face. “Why don’t I show you?” Pain seemed to rack his body and Conrí fell to his knees. The sound of muscles tearing and bones snapping echoed through the chamber. Conrí began screaming in agony, revealing that his teeth were rapidly becoming fangs. “Listen!” he growled, his voice barely recognizable. “As my brethren howl and sing! As I show you why I am the wolf king!” Conrí’s face began to elongate into a muzzle and fur spread across his form. Then… he rapidly began to grow. When the growth finally halted, Conrí was now larger than even Swiftrunner with fur of equal parts inky-black and blood-red. 

 

The transformation complete, Conrí rose to all fours, growling and panting. Xolana was speechless. In fact she was so stunned that she almost let the fire ring around Zathrian go wild but grappled control over it again last second.

 

Koun loped forward towards his transformed master, a worried whine issuing from him. Conrí’s pants hadn’t stopped but he allowed Koun sniff hum before turning to the rest of the group. He seemed to be studying them, as though he had never seen them before.

 

“Anyone else feel like a plate of nug ribs?!” Garik whispered frantically.

 

Tira, however was much more confident. “He won't hurt us. He's still our commander, and he knows it.”

 

Conrí let out a raspy chuckle. “Good to see at least one of you has a clear head on her shoulders. Garik, I’m disappointed in you. You really thought I would lose myself to the primal mind?”

 

“Um...” Garik cleared his throat and stepped out from behind Sten. “This ones on me, boss,” he smacked the back of his own head.

 

Xolana couldn’t help but chuckle at the situation before returning her glare back to Zathrian. “Mindless beasts, huh?” she growled, pulling the ring of fire a little bit tighter around him.

 

Tristan crossed his arms in front of chest with an unimpressed look on his face. “You might want to think very carefully about what you say next, Keeper,” he spat the word like an insult.

 

“We’re standing for what’s right here,” Alistair added. “No matter what!”

 

Zathrian bared his teeth and slashed his hand with a dagger. “Then you can die with them! All of you shall suffer as you deserve!” he extinguished Xolana’s flames before launching a spell of his own.

 

Xolana scoffed, “Like I'll let you!” she snarled, cutting her own palms to counteract each of his blood powered spells, but the old elf was very powerful so she didn't hold out for long. “ALISTAIR SOME DISPELLING WOULD BE GREAT RIGHT ABOUT NOW!”

 

“Coming right up!” Alistair called as he began dispelling Zathrian's magic.

 

In response, Zathrian awakened a pair of sylvans that lined the wall. Conrí snarled and leapt upon one, tearing into it with fang and claw. Sap shot from the wounds like blood amid the howling of the wounded sylvan.

 

“FOCUS ON HIM!” Tristan called. “We can't attack while Alistair dispels the area, we'll take care of the sylvans!”

 

Xolana took a few seconds to recover before managing to get to Wynne. “Wynne... my palms... please...” the elder mage nodded. Once she'd restored the worst of the damage on Xolana’s palms, the both started helping Tristan and Morrigan take out the Sylvans without danger of Xolana falling back into blood magic.

 

Tira launched a barrage of Arrows at the other Sylvan while Garik and Erin weaved in and out around Zathrian's spells, taking shots when they could and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

 

One of the Sylvan tipped over and Conrí howl in triumph as Swiftrunner and Gatekeeper held the creature down. Conrí grabbed its head by the crown of branches and with a snarl, tore its head off.

 

Witherfang reared up and slammed his paws onto the ground, summoning vines to bind the remaining sylvan. “You are my creator, but you cannot master me!” the wolf bayed. “I watched over this forest before the foundations of Arlathan were laid. I was ancient before the Old Gods were bound beneath the earth and I will be here long after the bones of your people have crumbled into dust!”

 

The mages, together with the Werewolves, made quick work of the creatures Zathrian summoned until finally only a subdued Zathrian was left, backed into a corner and out of moves. Sten stood before him, sword bared. “You stand defeated,” he said fiercely. “Now, the curse.”

 

Conrí came to stand next to Sten before ducking a spell and seizing Zathrian by the neck. Zathrian struggled briefly in Conrí’s grip. “No… No more,” he croaked after a long moment. “I cannot… cannot defeat you.”

 

“Finish it!” Swiftrunner crowed. “Kill him now!” Conrí began to squeeze Zathrian’s neck…

 

“No, my lord!” the Lady of the Forest ran up, gripping Conrí’s arm. He did not fail to notice her use of the honorific. Perhaps she knew of the legend… “We will not kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how can we expect there to be any in his?”

 

“I cannot do what you ask, spirit!” Zathrian groaned. “All I see when I look at them are the faces of my children, of my people! I can’t do it, I just can’t!”

 

“Zathrian,” Conrí sighed as he regained himself. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough? How long will you punish the innocent for something they didn’t do?”

 

“What else can I do? What would you do, Warden? If you held your son’s maimed corpse in your arms, looked into the broken eyes of your daughter as life fled her body from the knife she’d driven into her own heart, and knew that you had the power to avenge them, would you not do all you could to do so?”

 

Conrí growled, bringing Zathrian close. “You think you are the only one who knows what it is to lose your family? I saw my father bleeding his last across the floor of our home, and left him and my mother to certain death, left the only home I ever know to be in flames brought about by a traitor who dared to call himself friend because it was my dutyto put the need of others above my own desires. I swore to do what was needed for the kingdom over what I wanted for myself. I went to Ostagar, went to bring word to my brother and the King, to see that justice was done. But there was no justice, only further, worse betrayals by a man who should have been the best of us. Yes, I swore to exact justice on those who took everything from me. But I have a greater duty now; a Grey Warden’s duties must come before revenge. I cannot forsake that duty for anything. Make no mistake, I will exact retribution if I get the chance, but not at the cost of everything; if I must choose between killing my enemies and the archdemon, I will end the Blight. Nor will I make the many suffer for the crimes of the few; such a thing is an abomination in the sight of your gods, as well as mine. The duties of a Keeper are not so different. We both must put our own desires after the needs of those around us.”

 

Zathrian rubbed his throat as Conrí set him down. “I swore upon their graves that I would avenge them. I swore that for everything they suffered, those who did such would suffer a hundred, a thousand times worse.”

 

“And so you have,” Tira breathed. “But are you really going to let your clan, the people who look to you as leader and father, die for this? Such a thing is an affront to everything a Keeper stands for, not to mention a blasphemy against our gods and all that is good in this world.”

 

“I think I've seen enough failed revenge stories to last me a lifetime now...” Alistair mumbled, trying to keep the mood light, but received a hard elbow in the ribs from Wynne.

  
“Perhaps I have lived too long,” Zathrian sighed. “I can barely remember them as they were before… before I lost them. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root… it has consumed my soul. What say you, spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?”

 

“You are my maker, Zathrian and through you, I have experienced all that it is to be mortal,” the Lady breathed. “I have known hope and fear, pain and love, all the joy that is life. Yet above all things, I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, Zathrian, put an end to me. Let me return to my beloved forest, and let yourself go to be reunited with your children. We beg of you… show mercy.”

 

Zathrian was quiet for a long moment as Swiftrunner, his pack and the Lady all pleaded silently with him. “You shame me, spirit. I… I am a stubborn, selfish old man, alive long past his time…”

 

“Then you will do it?” hope had entered the Lady’s ancient voice. “You will end the curse?”

 

“Yes, I think it is time,” Zathrian stood. “Let us… let us put an end to all this…” the werewolves gathered around the pair as Zathrian lifted his staff and brought it down to the stone, breaking the curse. The elf then slumped over, his life extinguished.

 

The werewolves gathered closer around the Lady before she began to glow. After a long moment, she disappeared in a flash and firefly like bursts of light. The wolves themselves then began to glow as did Conrí. When the light faded, they were all human once more… save for a lone Dalish wearing a red scarf and nothing more.

 

Conrí groaned and began to topple over. Sten caught the winded Warden. “Are you well, Warden?”

 

“Aye... just exhausted,” Conrí grunted.

 

“It's over...” the man who had been Swiftrunner muttered. “She's gone... and...We're human...! I can scarcely believe it!”

 

“Unfair...” Conrí sighed. “Why aren't you lot about to collapse?”

 

“We did not turn, fight and turn back in the matter of less than an hour,” Swiftrunner chuckled.

 

Xolana smirked as she leered openly at Conrí. “Don't worry though, commander, we don't mind looking after you until you recover... that is, if I can convince Leliana that you didn't get undressed by a rabid hoard of sex-starved fangirls...”

 

“I don't get it,” Alistair whined. “He turns into a nine foot fuzz monster and immediately after he's normal, he has women fawning over him.”

 

Conrí chuckled hoarsely. “It's the Cousland charm, mate. Garik, I think I have a spare pair of trousers in my pack. Would you mind fetching them?”

 

Wynne had a hand over her eyes. “Quickly, if you please.” Garik snorted with laughter before retrieving the clothes.

 

“I don't know, Alistair,” Xolana contemplated. “That transformation gave him quite the... wolfish, animalistic charm...” she winked at Alistair and Conrí.

 

“Be quick about changing, mate,” Garik snickered. “Xolana looks about ready to jump your bones already.”

 

Xolana gave an indignant sniff. “I know how to restrain myself!”

 

“Yeah, RIGHT,” Tristan scoffed.

 

Swiftrunner chuckled. “We have some spare clothes if they are needed after we take what we need.”

 

“Where will you go?” Tira asked.

 

“We'll leave the forest I suppose,” Swiftrunner turned to his fellows. “Find other humans, see what's out there for us. It should be interesting, no? Thank you all. For everything.”

 

“Wait a moment,” Conrí straightened and pulls a scrap of parchment from his belt pouch, which was hanging precariously from his waist and scribbled on it with a bit of charcoal. “Take this. There’s a fortress up north called Soldier’s Peak. We could use some extra hands against the Blight. Give the note to a man named Levi Dryden. Let him know to get you suited up and I’ll pay him when we return. In exchange, you’ll have food, shelter and safety. It might help you get used to other humans again.”

 

Swiftrunner nodded and took the note, folding it carefully. “Thank you my friend. We’ll never forget your kindness,”the former werewolves began packing and clothing themselves before leaving.

 

“Perhaps it would be best if we stayed here for the night,” Sten intoned. “The commander is still exhausted.”

 

Conrí came back from changing into a pair of worn trousers. “My pride wants to say sod that, but my body isn't having any of it.”

 

“Well, unless I'm mistaken, I am still in charge for now...” Tira crossed her arms. “And I agree with Sten.”

 

Xolana smirked. “Bossy. I like. Getting used to the power, I see?”

 

“Hm. You know, I just might be,” Tira snickered.

 

Conrí snorted. “You know as well as I do Erin will be giving you grief like you wouldn't believe.”

 

“You bet I will,” Erin grinned mischievously. 

 

Tira sighed. “Why am I in love with you again?”

 

“Cousland charm, love,” Erin smirked, kissing Tira on the cheek.

 

* * *

 

“Alright, ladies,” Garik turned to the new Arcane warriors. “Get some reasonable clothes on. Those skirts of yours will only get in the way.”

 

“Ladi-... did he just... wait I mean...” Tristan was finally silenced by Xolana elbowing him.

 

“So... I've never worn trousers before...” Xolana stared awkwardly at the clothes handed to her.

 

Garik snickered evilly. “One leg on each side, Amell.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” Xolana gulped. “I wouldn't have guessed.” She disappeared for a while to put the clothes on and came back out looking like a wet puppy. “How do you men LIVE in these... they are so uncomfortable! And loose and tight in all the wrong places!”

 

“Suck it up, Amell,” Tristan scowled, stretching his legs to acclimate to the tighter garment. “How do you think I felt wearing skirts all my life!?

 

Conrí snickered from his place leaning against Koun, still bare chested. “’They're robes, not skirts,’” he mocked. “And Amell, I do believe you have the trousers on backwards.”

 

“Robes, skirts. Regardless what the circle and some mages will have you believe, it's all the same shit,” Tristan muttered as Xolana threw her hands up in despair.

 

“OH WHATEVER SO I'M WEARING THEM BACKWARDS, BACKWARDS THEY STAY.”

 

Garik tossed Xolana a pair of blunted training daggers. “We’ll start with you, Sparkles.”

 

Xolana sighed. “You and your nicknames...” she just managed to awkwardly catch the daggers. “Fine so... where do we start?”

 

Tristan was laughing already. “Oh, this will be good.”

 

“Oh, don't worry, Chuckles,” Garik shot at the elf. “You're next. As for you, come at me,” rather than getting ready, Garik merely stood there with arms crossed.

 

Xolana chuckled at Tristan's nickname but then stared dumbfounded at Garik. “Uh... just... like that?”

 

“Not afraid of a little dwarf are you?” Garik taunted.

 

“Garik, you and I both know you're more than just ‘a little dwarf,’” Xolana stalled.

 

“I'm getting old over here,” Garik sighed.

 

Tristan’s catcalling Xolana as a scaredy-cat made the female mage finally attempt to give a dagger a twirl in her hand and find that it doesn't feel that dissimilar from twirling her staff. This gave her comfort so she suddenly looked a lot more confident. “FINE!!!” she barked, going for Garik…

 

Only for Garik to grab the arm that swung at him, pop his hips and throw Xolana to the stone floor.

 

Conrí grimaces with a smirk. “Ooh, that had to hurt.”

 

It happened so fast Xolana didn't even know how the fuck she ended up on the floor. “...Uh.”

 

Tira, trying to be nice, forced out, “Not bad for a first attempt…”

 

Xolana pulled herself up again with fire in her eyes. “Don't coddle me! I'll do better this time!” she ran at Garik again, trying a different angle. Garik ducked to the side, clipping her thigh with his inner forearm and throwing Xolana off balance. Xolana got up with an angry huff. “RAAAAAH!” she went for it again. 

 

“I like your tenacity Amell,” Garik admitted after the twentieth attempt. “But you might wanna take a break.”

 

Xolana got up again, still huffing with anger and looking pretty exhausted. “I'm... not finished yet...” she took a step forward and sank back down again. “........ Okay, maybe just a short break...” she seemed pretty disappointed in herself.

 

“Be thankful we aren't playing Dust Town rules,” Garik advised. Xolana grumbled to herself.

 

Tristan gulped loudly. “Does... that... uh... I mean, is it my turn now...?”

 

“Yep. Come on, boyo,” Garik tossed the elf a blunted sword.

 

“Alright, I’m just gonna ask,” Conrí piped up. “What exactly are Dust Town rules?”

 

“If you ain't cheating, you ain't trying,” Garik chuckled.

 

“...why do I get a sword?!” Tristan seemed pretty freaked out by this.

 

“Do I look like a duster who keeps a lot of blunt knives around?” Garik sighed.

 

“Knives, yes,” Erin cut in. “Blunt, no.”

 

“Thank you!”

 

“So, what do you propose? Shall I cut off my leg on purpose now or by accident later?!” Tristan cried.

 

Garik sighed in frustration. “It's blunt you sodding nug-humper!” he grabbed the blade to emphasize this point.

 

“...oh. Right. Ok. So... what do I do? Just... try and attack?” Tristan asked, trying to cover his embarrassment.

 

“That's the idea, yes. And just a little tip. The pointy end comes at me,” Garik snarked.

 

“Hahaha. I knew THAT much...” Tristan finally brought up the courage and tried to come at Garik, swinging the sword. Garik ducked the blade, jammed his shoulder into Tristan's waist, grabbed the back of his legs and lifted before dropping Tristan flat on his back. The elf flailed and dropped the sword as he landed, winded. “Ok. I'm done,” he coughed.

 

Conrí gestured at Morrigan, who handed him a small sack of coins. “I told you. Mages may be powerful, but without using magic they’re easy pickings for any warrior or rogue with more than a week of training.”

 

“That was truly pathetic,” Morrigan sighed.

 

“I don't think I’ve ever heard you say so much at one time, boss,” Garik called. “Well unless you’re chewing someone out.”

 

“Wasn't my job before,” Conrí chuckled. Wynne rolled her eyes as she looked over Danyla’s wounds as the elf slept.

 

Tristan was just glad the attention wasn't on him anymore as he crawled over to where Xolana was still trying to recover to complain.

 

“Hey, you two just wait until I’m in charge,” Conrí snorted.

 

Xolana pushed Tristan weakly. “Go back out there you wuss,” she wheezed.

 

“Says the dying grandmother,” Tristan muttered.

 

“Don't make me kick your ass, you know I will!”

 

Garik grabbed Tristan by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back onto the field. “NO PLEASE,” Tristan tried clawing the ground to escape.

 

“This is gonna take a while,” said Conrí as he made himself comfortable.

 

“WHO IS CATCALLING WHO NOW, EH TRISTAN!” Xolana had recovered her breath, but not quite all muscle movement yet. Tristan couldn't even respond as he was too busy trying to attack Garik and failing. The dwarf ended up trapping the elf in an ankle lock. While Tristan wailed to be released, Xolana had regained some strength and forced herself up. “Ok Garik, I wanna go again. I'll do better this time.”

 

“Alright,” Garik shrugged, adding a vindictive twist before letting go of Tristan. “Wanna know a cool trick?” Xolana nodded. “Alright. You come up, step around them,” he demonstrated as soon as Tristan was able to stand. “Grab 'em around the waist, lift and drop,” he landed on top of Tristan, than rolled around so he had a hold of the elf's head. “From here, you can choke him out, or transition to another hold.”

 

Xolana chuckled while Tristan wailed feebly. “That looks useful... but I'd have to actually be able to get to them first. And I still haven't managed to so much as touch you.”

 

“Well, yeah, I’ve been doing this for years, and I know what you're planning.”

 

Xolana frowned. “I realize that but... look, I'm just thinking. When we have defeated the blight,” Garik noted the very purposeful use of the word when. “I probably still won't be able to so much as touch you. I realize that. But if I can at least not look like such a fool for even TRYING anymore, that's already an improvement... and chances are, that plus my magic will make me able to hold out in a fight and actually be USEFUL. So please, don't just give up on me. Please help me.”

 

“Alright,” Garik nodded. “Skirt boy isn't cut out to be a rogue, but I think you'll do nicely.”

 

Xolana looked over at Tristan with a sigh. “So I'm in this alone all of a sudden, huh?”

 

“Look on the bright side,” Garik grinned. “Now you have my full attention.”

 

“I'm not sure that's good for my health, but I'm sure my training will benefit. On that note... shall we get back to it?”

 

Tristan grumbled in the background. “What about me..? What do I do?”

 

Sten stood up with a slightly sadistic smirk. “Come, elf. Let us see if you can handle a sword.”

 

Xolana looked like she about to say something in Tristan's defense, then thought better of it and just turned back to Garik “......so...... are we continuing...?”

 

“No time like the present,” Garik agreed.

 

Xolana nodded and dropped into what she’d come to think of as her rogue stance, though of course there was much to be improved on. She decided to go for a different strategy this time, watching Garik wearily for a little while without moving. This time, rather than running up, she edged closer more carefully. To her surprise, Garik actually grabbed his own training daggers and settled into a stance, mimicking Xolana’s moves. Xolana lost focus for a second out of surprise that she had gotten a reaction other than Garik just flipping me out of him. She quickly regained herself and began to circle.

 

“You're lucky I was more than a step away there. Otherwise you’d’ve been flat on your ass again, Amell,” Garik warned.

 

“I'm still new to this, but I won't keep the beginner's handicap forever,” Xolana admitted. As things began to get interesting this time, everyone save Sten and Tristan began watching and pay attention silently around the pair. Garik stepped in with a short sweep of his blade. Xolana jumped to the side and thought (a touch naively) that she could see an opening, trying to stab to it. Garik: swung to the side, slapping Xolana on the wrist with the flat of his blade. “OW!” Xolana dropped the blade with a yelp of surprise.

 

Garik raised the blunted blade to Xolana’s neck. “Not bad. Your foot work needs some adjustments, but not bad.”

 

Xolana swallowed. “He says holding a knife to my throat.”

 

Garik rolled eyes. “Try again,” he backed up.

 

“You not gonna teach me any of said footwork before we do?” Xolana asked, twirling the blades more and more comfortably already.

 

“For one, smooth out your stride. You're too jerky.” Xolana mulled this over then nodded and got back into stance. “For two, widen your stance. I understand you're not used to trousers yet, but you get knocked over too easy right now.”

 

Xolana did as she was told while mumbling to herself. “Only in sword training could someone ever tell me to spread my legs and NOT mean it in a sexual sense, just my luck.”

 

“Better,” Garik ignored the mumbling. “Don't go too wide though. You won't be able to move quick and you give someone the perfect opportunity to... well, take a cheap shot.”

 

“...while I understand that is a bigger problem for men...” Xolana checked her stance again. “I'm not sure I want to test that theory. Like this?”

 

“Perfect. And trust me. I've kicked enough women there that I know it doesn't matter.”

 

“Charming,” Xolana sighed. “Please save the dirty tactics for later lessons? For now?”

 

“Yes, for now,” Garik flipped his blade around and slowly made his way forward. Xolana stayed firm where she was, watching Garik progress carefully. Garik lashed out with a short kick, trying to trip Xolana up. Xolana pulled back her front leg out of reach and lashed out with her knife, using her height advantage to try and bring the knife to his. Garik jerked back. “Whoa! Little close for comfort on that one. Not bad!”

 

Xolana blinked in shock. “Uh... really?” a massive grin broke over her face. “REALLY!?” only for Garik to flip her as he did the first time.

 

“Yeah. Don't get cocky.”

 

Xolana lay stunned and dizzy on the ground. “....Owie....” she looked over to where Tristan and Sten went off to. “Oi, Surana... how's it going on your end?”

 

“SHIT!” Tristan dodged Sten’s maul. “NOT WELL!” 

 

Xolana cringed and looked over to see Conrí already fast asleep, leaning against Koun.

 

“I think we should all take a page from Conrí’s book. It's been a long day,” Wynne advised.

 

Xolana wanted to complain and say that she wanted to keep training but quickly realized as she tried to get up that she couldn’t really stand anymore from exhaustion. She let out an annoyed sigh. “Fine... sleep it is. ...Anyone mind if I just stay here? Can I please get a blanket?” Garik sighed and dragged Xolana over next to Conrí and Koun. “H- HEY!!! A BIT MORE GENTLY IF YOU PLEASE... Despite everything I'm still a lady!” Xolana kicked at him feebly.

 

“Uh huh,” Garik dropped a heavy blanket on Xolana.

 

Despite the continued annoyed grumbling, Xolana pulled the blanket around herself and cuddled up to Koun and Conrí, muttering a “thank you” to the dwarf.

 

“WHAT ABOUT ME SOMEONE SAVE ME!” Tristan yelled, still dodging Sten.

 

“Sten, stand down for the night,” Tira ordered.

 

“Very well...” Sten rumbled.

 

“If your life is no longer in danger, come cuddle you stupid elf, its cold!” Xolana called to a still panting Tristan.

 

Garik snickered. “Don’t puke, Surana.”

 

“...EW, actually, don't come cuddle,” Xolana hid between the blanket, Koun and Conrí again, quickly falling asleep.

 


	27. Another Favor Complete and an Unexpected Appearance

 

Conrí  woke the next morning to see Xolana leaning against him. With a roll of his eyes, he waited for the mage to wake. He didn’t have to wait long. Xolana began wake up soon after Conrí once he’d started moving. She mewled in pain as she tried to yawn because everything hurt. “I take it someone’s sore?” Conrí asked. Xolana nodded with an expression reminiscent of a wet puppy. Conrí sighed. “Wynne? You have anything for pain?”

 

“Chew on some elfroot for the moment,” Wynne commented from her place making a number of poultices. Xolana was just about able to roll to her pack to grab some.

 

“Here,” Conrí held up a small bundle of elfroot to the sore mage.

 

“What the hell...?” Xolana groaned. “I swear this shouldn't hurt so much!!!” She didn't even know that she had that many muscles in her body.

 

“Nothing like sitting on your ass in the tower is it?” Conrí teased.

 

Xolana glared at him haughtily. “What, you think I can't take this? I'm NEVER going back to that tower!”

 

“Stop talking and chew,” Conrí gestured with the bundle of roots.

 

Xolana grumbled and did as she was told while somewhere nearby she heard Tristan waking up in very much the same sorry state as herself. Morrigan sighed and made her way over with another bundle of elfroot.

 

The elf called Danyla stirred not long after. Much like Conrí, she was weak from her wounds and the strain of the transformation. She rolled over and spied the tall red haired human stretching his still tired muscles. “The Lady called you Conrí, no?” she asked after a moment. 

 

“Aye, that is my name,” Conrí grunted. He had a rather persistent knot in-between his shoulder blades. “Danyla, yes?”

 

“You remember,” Danyla sighed as she slowly sat up, only for Wynne to bustle over and hand her a stamina tonic. “ _Ma Serannas, Hahren_. I am curious, Conrí. The Lady of the Forest seemed to recognize you name. Does it mean anything?”

 

Conrí sighed. “Why does everyone seem to ask those of another culture if their names mean anything?” he asked no one in particular. 

 

“I apologize. That was rather rude to ask.”

 

“No, never mind,” Conrí sighed. “It does indeed mean something. My sister and I were named after two characters in a rather famous Fereldan tale. Dane and the Werewolf. Most versions of the story do not mention this, but the werewolf Alpha had a name, as did the woman who had warned Dane of the creatures in the forest Dane was to hunt in. The alpha was Conrí and the woman, Erin.”

 

Tira, having overheard the conversation, turned to Erin with raised brows. The redhead gestured that she listen to her brother’s words.

 

“Dane, after spending a year and a day as a werewolf, wanted to return to his former life, but Conrí had no desire to return to his. So Dane worked a deal with a witch and had the magic undone. Conrí was furious, having been forced to return to his twisted form and declared that Dane was to die. ‘Listen as my brethren howl and sing as I show you why I am the wolf king!’ were the werewolf’s last words before the battle began. Dane won in the end, and found out later that the woman, Erin, who had warned Dane all that time ago was in fact Conrí’s sister,” Conrí concluded. “My father did love telling this tale when I was a pup, and thought himself very clever for naming us after two mostly unknown characters in the story. You asked what my name meant Danyla. It is old Alamarri for ‘Wolf King.’”

 

* * *

 

The group set out a few days later when Wynne was sure Conrí was strong enough to travel. Even still, the pace was slow as Conrí was still quick to tire, frustrating the proud warrior. The transformations took a toll on his body and would require more rest when safely back at the Dalish camp. They had made two separate litters for Danyla and Zathrian’s remains. Sten had argued for leaving the Keeper were he fell, but was silent when Tira spoke of the Dalish burial rites. He grumblingly acknowledged that the Dalish ways were not his own and didn’t bring the matter up again. They made it to the Grand Oak’s glen just as the sun began to set. The ancient sylvan stirred. “Hm. Once again I welcome thee. What brings you again before this ageing tree?” it rumbled.

 

“Our comrade has had a hard few days,” Tira spoke. “Most animals seem to avoid this area so we were hoping you wouldn’t mind us staying the night here.”

 

“Ah, it bothers me not for your friendly company. I hope your slumber is worry free,” The Grand Oak chuckled. “Now that your friends have completed their task, I request an answer to a question I must ask. It has been gnawing at me, see, so answer I pray. Are thou all of the Wardens Grey?”

 

Tira was surprised that the Oak knew of such a thing but nodded. “Yes, many of us here and more back at camp are Grey Wardens.”

 

“Guardians against the beasts of darkness and taint, those called by the god driven mad with hate. Long ago, when my fellows were seeds barely sown, a being came to me in the glen I call my own. A being more ancient even than me, asked to meet those who carry a burden like thee. My friend lies to the north in a cave ravaged by time. Bring peace, I pray, for he has committed no crime.”

 

Tira turned to the others. “What do you think?”

 

“Could be worth looking into,” Conrí grunted, leaning against a tree. He was wearing the scraps of clothing they’d managed to salvage from the werewolves’ lair, and was looking a bit twitchy out of his armor.

 

“Is someone there?” an unfamiliar voice echoed through the trees. A lone elf pushed through the foliage. He had long dirty brown hair and vallaslin, marking him as Dalish or at least affiliated with them. “Ah, Grand Oak. I didn’t realize you were entertaining. My friends, it is not safe in these woods.”

 

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Xolana sighed, flipping her new dagger end over end. 

 

“Aneirin?” Wynne asked, barely able to believe her eyes.

 

“Wait, I remember you…” Aneirin muttered. “But younger, more impulsive. Stern. Wynne?”

 

“I thought they had killed you…” Wynne mourned.

 

“They very nearly did,” Aneirin admitted. “The Templars ran me through and left me for dead. Luckily, Zathrian’s clan was wandering nearby and found me.”

 

“I brought this on you,” Wynne sighed. “I was a horrible mentor, harsh and impatient. I am sorry for the way I treated you.”

 

“I have put that behind me,” Aneirin argued. “And you should too. I didn’t fit in with the templars and your Chantry. My path lay elsewhere.”

  
“Irving is a reasonable man,” Wynne continued. “He will find a way for you to return. The Circle needs new blood, it needs to change.”

 

“I have fond memories of Irving,” Aneirin chuckled. “He was always kind to me. I will consider your proposal and perhaps I will speak to Irving. However I promise nothing. But perhaps the mages you seek are already at your side. Two of the Grey Wardens are mages, no? I recognize them as well, though they were far smaller when I last saw them. The blight will not last forever. Why not look to them to shape the new Circle?”

 

“Problem is, I’m a blood mage,” Xolana admitted.

 

Aneirin’s eyes widened briefly. “I see. That would be problematic. How did this come about? You made no deal, I trust?”

 

“No,” Xolana shook her head. “Pure research.”

 

“Then perhaps you will be more capable than you think. The Dalish discourage such mage-craft, but so long as one is not controlling the minds of others… Regardless, it is something you should all think about.”

 

“You are more than welcome to share our camp, Aneirin,” Tira offered. “We need to go a bit slower than some of us would like,” she looked at Conrí as she said this. The warrior snorted in agitation and picked up a short, fat portion of a fallen branch. After examining it for a moment, he drew his boot knife and began carving.

 

“I thank you. It is some ways back to my camp,” Aneirin sat down across from Conrí. “It is good to see you well, Danyla. I feared the worst when I saw you run from the camp.”

 

“I owe much to the Grey Wardens,” Danyla admitted. “Tira in particular kept me from losing all hope and sanity.”

 

“It seems the legends of the Wardens don’t do them justice,” Aneirin chuckled. 

 

“Indeed,” Danyla smiled sadly. “I think the dismissal many of our people show the order is rather foolish. I’m ashamed to admit I was once among that number.”

 

Aneirin nodded and turned to watch the weary human chip away at the oak in his hands. His attention, however was soon stolen by Wynne, who wanted to catch up with her former pupil. 

 

Tira approached with a bowl of venison stew a short time later. “I didn’t know humans made a habit of carving wood, Conrí,” she said. 

 

“Most don’t,” Conrí admitted. “I learned as a way to pass the time when I broke my leg falling out of a tree. My father had a mage come and set the bone, but it took time to heal, so I learned some carving techniques. Most of Oren’s toys were from my teen years when I would carve to pass the time.” He removed a bit from the front and began curving the blade to shape the wood.

 

“Any particular design in mind?” Tira asked.

 

“Just a ship. I made a ton of them over the years.”

 

“Hm. Well, don’t cut your fingers off, eh?” Tira chuckled as she went to sit closer to the fire. 

 

Conrí rolled his eyes and began carving the deck deeper into the wood to make the railings. 

 

Over the next several days, the group made their way closer to the Dalish camp. Conrí’s strength slowly returned, enough that he could wear what was left of his heavy chain. The werewolves claws and fangs had rent large gaps and holes in the viridium. Perhaps when he recovered, he’d be able to make use of the Juggernaut plate.

 

When they finally reached the camp itself, Conrí was tiring slower, but still much too quickly for his taste. He reasoned that a few days with the Dalish would be more than enough to regain his old strength. 

 

Lanaya was as good as her word: the Dalish treated them like returning heroes. Their wounds were bound and treated, their supplies and weapons and armor repaired and mended or even replaced: Sten was gifted with a fine Dalish battleaxe, Leliana, Alistair and Erin were given fine Dalish longbows. Tira, in particular, made out like a bandit, as Garik put it. A set of fine elven armor made from Ironbark replaced her rather worn hide leathers and a gorgeous Dragonthorn longbow know as Falon’ din’s Reach was gifted to her. 

 

“You did it, sister! You saved us from the ravages of the curse!” Sarel joyously exclaimed as Tira and Conrí sat down at the fire. Conrí had resumed his carvings, rather amused that Varathorn seemed to be watching with some interest. No doubt it was quite the sight to see a human shaping wood.

 

“May the Creators bless you, truly!” a female elf gratefully nodded in agreement. 

 

Sarel gave an agreeing nod, before a more solemn edge crept into his voice. “But poor Zathrian is dead. He died a hero, I hope?”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Tira sighed. Conrí shot her a look that spoke his own opinion; a flat ‘hell no.’ “Had he broken the curse when the first person was injured, then maybe… he did what was right in the end, though.”

 

“Good. I would like a happy ending to his story,” Sarel approvingly remarked, before his face became much more guarded in expression as he continued. “Now, Keeper Lanaya prepares us to enter war alongside the humans. I never thought I would live to see the day.”

 

“I, for one, look forward to fighting against these darkspawn creatures,” called out a young male elf with the look of a warrior, garnering a few more approving nods and cheers from other elven warriors of the fellow’s age. 

 

Sarel merely raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Well, let us hope you return and tell us all about them. As for you, I imagine one day I’ll be telling stories about the Grey Warden, eh?”

 

“Ha,” Conrí barked out a laugh. “I think you give us too much credit, hahren.”

 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Sarel chuckled. 

 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Conrí stood up and gave a short bow. “I find myself in need of a few more materials to complete my little project here.” He held up his mostly finished ship. Sarel nodded and Conrí moved off. For the time being, he found a tree not too far from the fire and went about adding the final details to his wooden ship. Once the main wheel was in place, he glanced about himself, searching for a few relatively straight sticks to carve into the mast. 

 

Erin was sitting not far from the fire, fletching a few arrows since she was running low. Tira spied her lover and smiled. “Erin!” she called, waving her over when the redhead looked up. With a grunt, Erin got up and brought her work over to the fire. “Last time we sat here, you offered stories of your own people. Would you mind sharing one?”

 

Erin blinked and glanced around the fire. Sarel nodded encouragingly. Even some of the younger elves looked interested. “Alright. Has anyone heard the story The Dog That Bit?” she asked. After several shaken heads and negative responses, Erin nodded. “It’s an old tale I was told a lot as a pup.”

 

“Pup?” Sarel asked with a raised brow.

 

Erin smiled slightly sadly. “It’s a nickname given to the younger children of the Cousland family. Though my father insisted on referring to myself and my brother as pup well into our adult years. But, as I was saying. Before our father’s fathers came down from the mountains, a war hound was born to the elder bitch of a tribal chief. They named him Hohaku and gave him everything. He grew up a fine, strong pup, destined to be the partner of the chief’s eldest son. The young hound became arrogant, taking food from his kin and warning them, in the way of dogs, that the chief’s family would punish them if they tried to attack him.”

 

“Years passed,” Erin continued. “And the time for the chief’s son to take a war hound came closer. Hohaku’s pride swelled and many people of the tribe came to the chief, quietly whispering of this dog’s bullying. With each complaint, the chief saw only Hohaku’s strength and pride, and sent his people away. But as his son grew the chief watched more closely. The day might come when his boy’s life could depend on this dog. If the humblest of his people could not trust Hohaku, how could he? When the day came, Hohaku sat proudly, waiting to be called. But the old chief chose Hohaku’s brother as his son’s hound. 

 

“Hohaku was shamed, but felt no remorse. So great was his rage that he darted across the fire pit and bit the chief’s hand. The chief and his son struck at Hohaku, cursing him. The hound ran into the village, seeking shelter in the tents and kennels. The other dogs snapped at him, and the tribes people threw stones at him. Before the chief could reach him, the tribe had torn Hohaku apart,” Erin concluded. “Can anyone say what the lesson of this story is?” she asked.

 

The fireside was silent save for the crackling of the flames. Even Sarel looked to be thinking hard. But when the answer came, it wasn’t from the story teller. “How you treat the least is remembered by the greatest,” Tira intoned.

 

“Exactly,” Erin nodded. “The tribe and their dogs granted the chief and his dogs their authority. When they saw that Hohaku was unworthy, they turned on him. There was a reason my nanny and parents would recite this tale. In Fereldan, the nobility are not where they are because of divine right. As much as some like to think so, power doesn’t come from the top down. It comes from the bottom up. Without the freeholders, the Banns, Arls and Teyrns and even the king would be nothing.”

 

“Without his people,” Conrí called over as he bound a patch of worn cloth to the mast to emulate a sail. “A commanding officer would be nothing.”

 

Silence greeted Conrí’s words as he finished fastening his sail to the ship. A silence that was broken in typical fashion by the group’s resident blood mage. “Aw, the Commander loves us!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I always knew you were a big softie.”

 

Conrí’s face went deadpan. “I’m not a softie,” he sighed. “And what did I tell you about personal space?”

 

“Didn’t listen.”

 

“Why am I not surprised?” Conrí groaned, unwrapping Xolana’s arms and standing up. He went to Varathorn, hoping to find some sort of adhesive to hold his model together. 

 

“Uh, Lieutenant,” Alistair spoke from behind him as Varathorn set a jar in front of Conrí and took the offered coin. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

 

“I have time,” Conrí grunted, spreading the mixture of juniper sap and resin on the wood. “Speak.”

 

“I just wanted to thank you for what happened back in Redcliffe. As you pointed out, it would have been much easier to kill the arl’s family rather than save them. You went out of your way to save people you didn’t know or even care for. With everything that’s happened, it makes me feel good that we were able to save something, no matter how small. I think I owe Eamon that much at least.”

 

“You owe Eamon nothing, Alistair,” Conrí argued, wrapping a string around the mast and tying it, hoping it would hold together while the adhesive dried. “How he treated you was inexcusable. Maybe you didn’t need to be raised as a prince, but you could have at least had a roof over your head and a bed to sleep on. Even a bastard has no business being treated like a dog with mange.”

 

“To be fair, I am the product of Maric’s infidelity toward Eamon’s sister,” Alistair sighed.

 

“No, you’re not,” Conrí turned to Alistair. “When you were born, Queen Rowan had been dead for two years. If Eamon used infidelity as an excuse to be angry at Maric, he’s barking up the wrong tree. Eamon never forgave Maric for moving on from Rowan. And I’m willing to bet he didn’t like not having the ear of the king over a…. how did Eamon put it? A jumped up commoner? Loghain was the son of a farmer before the Rebellion. After the Orlesian’s were routed, Maric gave Loghain the Teyrnir of Gwaren, over the heads of the so-called more deserving nobles. The loudest dissidents included Eamon of Redcliffe. He protest even more when Cailan married Anora, calling her common born. This is not the case since Loghain was now nobility as were his wife and daughter. Eamon is not the man you seem to think he is. If he owed Maric anything, it was to raise you, not force you to raise yourself. Willing to bet that as soon as he’s awake, Eamon will want your ass on the throne.”

 

“What?!” Alistair squawked. “No, you must be joking! Why not keep Anora on the throne?”

 

“Blood is everything to nobles like Eamon. Anyone not born noble should stay out of their ‘august’ company. Anora, despite being born nobility is still a commoner to the likes of Eamon. In his eyes, even bastard should be on the throne of Fereldan before a commoner. Be prepared for Eamon to try that.”

 

“What? No… he wouldn’t… would he?” Alistair mumbled as he walked off. After a while of pacing he decided to get back to what he had started. “Uh... Xolana?” he asked. “Can I... talk to you for a minute?”

 

Xolana looked up, mildly surprised, and excused herself from the group she'd been speaking with and stood up. “Um... sure? What's going on, Alistair?”

 

“I just... wanted to talk for a minute. Away from the others?” Alistair said, jerking his head meaningfully towards an empty part of camp. Xolana raised a concerned eyebrow but eventually nodded and followed him away from the others. Alistair led her away from the group. “Um... this is embarrassing to say and makes every manly feeling I have cringe in abject horror... but I... may have been...”

 

Xolana looked at the former templar with a mix of apprehension, confusion and irritation. “Alistair, _what_? Just out with it. Is this some elaborate ruse for a new insult?” she huffed in annoyance. “You know what, I don't need this. I'm going back to the others,” she turned to leave already.

 

“Wait!” Alistair called. “I'm not trying to insult you.”

 

Xolana stopped and pinched the bridge of her nose. She let out a sigh. “ _Fine_. Against my better judgment, you have one minute.”

 

“I'll probably need that with the stammering and putting my foot in my mouth,” Alistair mumbled.

 

“Oh for the love of the Maker...,” Xolana sat down with a huff of exasperation.

 

“Look, I know I haven't been the ideal team mate since you joined…” Alistair started.

 

Xolana scoffed in sarcastic laughter. “What else is new?”

 

“Okay, I deserved that,” Alistair sighed.

 

“Alistair. You think I consort with demons. Despite having seen time and time again that I know better, you still believe that I can't and won't control my blood magic. I get it, you don't like me because I represent all your fears and the worst in all mages in our world. What could you _possibly_ have to add to that?”

 

“Maybe that I was wrong?” Alistair grumbled. Xolana lost the wind in her sails, and raised an eyebrow. “I didn't call you over here to insult you or lecture you. Conrí was right, it doesn't matter what happened before you were recruited. A recruit is a recruit. And I owe you an apology.”

 

Xolana was slightly perplexed. “Alistair... does this mean you... finally accept me as a Warden recruit?”

 

“Yes. I'm sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I'm just not... comfortable with blood magic. But, I don't recall Duncan or anyone else ever mentioning a ban on blood magic in the Wardens so... yeah, so long as it’s not aimed at me, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

 

“Well...” Xolana looked uncertain for a moment and wrung her hands together uncomfortably. “I'll be honest I... don't know how I expected this to go, but this is not it at all.”

 

“Great! I'm not the only one feeling awkward!” Alistair celebrated, sarcastically lifting his arms in joy.

 

“Alistair you know... usually when someone apologizes they... you know, actually say _sorry_. And I also haven't exactly been nice to you in turn, so....

 

“Hey, I did say sorry. Why does no one listen when I talk?” Alistair pouted.

 

“...As I was _saying,_ I also have to apologize and... well I'm sorry I was mean to you all this time...?” Xolana seemed uncertain about her own apology.

 

“Don't worry about it. You've been nicer than Morrigan, not that that's hard, really,” Alistair sighed.

 

“Well just... Can we try and just be nice from here on out?” Xolana suggested.

 

“Sounds like a plan. Now if we can never mention this awkward bonding moment again, I’d appreciate it,” Alistair grinned.

 

“That definitely sounds like a plan,” Xolana smiled slightly awkwardly.

 

“So... do we hug? Maybe a kiss?” Alistair chuckled nervously.

 

Xolana looked at him like he'd lost his mind. “No. Let's not get hasty, now.”

 

“Okay, let's get out of here before I get to my kneecaps,” Alistair groaned.

 

Xolana smirked. “Actually _that_ I would like to see.”

 

“I bet you would. Evil woman,” Alistair stuck his tongue out at Xolana.

 

“Alright, alright let's not push it, the temptation to be mean to you is still too great for now,” Xolana sighed. “Let's get back to the others before they get the wrong idea.”

 

“Wrong idea?” Alistair raised his eyebrow in confusion. “You don't think they'd think we came out here to kill each other?” Xolana raised a critical eyebrow, crossed her arms in front of her chest and started tapping a foot. “.................. Oh, you mean....”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, he finally gets it,” Xolana cried. Alistair stuck his tongue out again. Xolana grabbed his tongue between two fingers and started tugging him back to the others. “Alright, alright come on, enough bonding for now.” Alistair whined but followed. Not that he had much choice.

 

Conrí raised his brows when the pair returned to the main part of the camp. “I must admit, I never thought I’d see you with a hold on someone's tongue quite in that fashion, Amell.”

 

“What can I say, we kissed and made up...” Xolana chuckled. “Minus the kissing bit, I'll add. And he thought that gave him a free pass to get cheeky again.”

 

“Hm. Good. Less tension on the road, the better.”

 

Xolana finally released Alistair’s tongue and just nodded at Conrí before returning to her previous conversation.

 

* * *

 

_ Denerim, Royal Palace _

 

“Sire, I bring more news,” Rendon Howe muttered to Loghain Mac Tir as he sat in the high-backed chair in the audience chamber. Loghain, who had been pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off a headache, turned his head to gaze warily at Howe. He was obviously in a poor mood. “Yes well… it seems like the fighting has…”

 

Howe was cut off as he heard arguing in the hall. “Your Majesty, your father is in the middle of--”

 

“I rather don’t care what he is doing, Ser Cauthrien,” Queen Anora snapped at her father’s lieutenant as she strode past the knight into the room. “I wish to know exactly what you wish to accomplish with this little Civil War, Father! The darkspawn are the greater threat, surely!”

 

“The nobility shall be brought into line and then the darkspawn defeated,” Loghain sighed. “This is no true Blight, Anora. Only Cailan’s vanity demanded it be so.”

 

“Beg pardon, sire,” Howe interjected. “But Blight or no, we may not have the man power to face the darkspawn if this drags on too long.”

 

“Cailan approached the Orlesian’s for support, did he not?” Anora demanded.

 

“NEVER!” Loghain snapped, slamming his fist onto the arm of the chair. “Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!”

 

“We need help, Father!” Anora cried, not even flinching at her father’s all too predictable outburst. “We cannot deal with the crisis alone!”

 

“Fereldan will stand on its own!” Loghain sighed and sat back. “I will lead us through this, Anora. You must have faith in me.”

 

“Did you kill Cailan?” Anora hissed, gritting her teeth.

 

For the first time since his return from the south, grief entered Loghain’s dark eyes. “Cailan’s death was unfortunate… but his own doing.” Anora fixed her father with a dangerous glare before throwing her hands up and storming back down the hall. Loghain groaned and rested his head in his hand. “Stupid boy…” he sighed. “Why couldn’t you listen to me?”

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Conrí found himself strong enough to travel without exhausting himself. After listening to Xolana and Leliana’s insistence for a number of hours, he agreed to try wearing the Juggernaut armor, but only, in his words, because he needed armor. As he’d noticed before, the armor hung slightly loose off his frame, but once the last buckle was pulled tight, the suit warmed and seemed to meld to his frame, making the fit perfect, as though the armor had been made with him in mind. 

 

“Hmph,” Sten scoffed. “Magic.”

 

“Can’t deny the results, Sten,” Erin told the large Qunari, handing her brother back his sword. 

 

Conrí took his blade and returned it to his sheath, rolling his shoulders to adjust to the new armor. It was much heavier than he was used to. Going from steel plate to lighter Viridium heavy chain back to plate, this made of enchanted silverite, was no easy task but he would get used to the added weight. 

 

“I suppose it is no surprise that squishy creatures like itself would wear skins of metal to protect themselves,” Shale commented, examining the runes carved into Conrí’s new armor. “You say it was named after a golem yes?”

 

“Supposedly,” Conrí grunted. “A pair of building sized golems that are said to guard the palace of Minrathous. Think a pair of metal beasts about the size of four of your stacked on top of each other and about five of you wide.”

 

Shale’s stony brows rose. “Is there any truth to these stories?”

 

“Perhaps,” Conrí allowed. “I’ve never been to Tevinter. I don’t plan on changing that, if I’m honest. Orlais was decadent enough if you ask me.”

 

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Orlais,” Leliana commented, intrigued. 

 

“My father was invited by a Marquis to establish some trade deals almost two years ago now. He decided to bring Erin and I along. Val Royeaux has its charm, I suppose, but the entire place smelt like perfume. And not the charming subtle kind, either. I was sneezing for almost a week straight,” Conrí’s sinuses felt like they were protesting at the mere memory.  

 

“It’s not that bad,” Leliana protested.

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow. “Spend years smelling the sea, spices and tar then tell me that Val Royeaux doesn’t have sickeningly sweet scent.”

 

Leliana scowled, but conceded his point. Even in the Chantry in Lothering, she’d noticed a difference in the preferred incense the priests used. In Orlais, sweet, almost cloying scents were used in the Chantry, while in Fereldan spicy scents were the norm. Leliana herself sometimes found herself uncomfortable with the scent in her early weeks in the Cloister but quickly adjusted and even began to enjoy the smell of Dragon’s Blood commonly used in Lothering.

 

“So, what is our next objective?” Morrigan asked, bored. “Do we do as the old spirit asked or continue to gather your army?”

 

Conrí lifted his hand to his chin, rubbing his slightly overlong beard. _I’ll need to trim this soon,_ he thought idly before returning his thoughts to the near future. “The Grand Oak hasn’t led us astray so far. It could be worth looking into if we can gain an ally from it. Who knows what they could do, know or have?”

 

“It could also be a trap,” Wynne pointed out, not unreasonably. “While I do believe the spirit was a benevolent sort, his so called friend may not be.”

 

“Which is why we will do this cautiously,” Erin put in. “If there’s a chance this friend of the Grand Oak can help us with the darkspawn, or better yet, the Archdemon, I think it’s worth the risk to seek this person out.”

 

“Any objections?” Conrí asked. Sten scowled but voiced no objections. Nor did anyone else. “Good. I think I know the cave the Grand Oak spoke of. It’s not far from Denerim. Travelers tend to avoid it since the locals say its cursed. Superstition or not, it is best we be wary. I don’t intend to mess about with curses.”

 

* * *

 

With Conrí back to normal, travel was much faster. They made the journey from the Brecilian forest to a small village about a day’s walk from Denerim. “Well, there it is. King’s Rest,” Conrí grunted. “Local story says King Maric stayed at a small farm house on the march to Denerim to confront Meghren. After the town began forming near the farm, they took the name.”

 

“And I thought Xolana was the one full of useless information,” Alistair snarked. Conrí craned his head around, raising an eyebrow at the former templar. “Riiiiight. You know, Lieutenant, you look eerily like Duncan when you do that. And not in a way that gives me the warm fuzzies when I think about it.”

 

Conrí rolled his eyes and snorted. “Come on. There’s an inn near the center of town. Should be large enough to accommodate the lot of us.”

 

“I must admit, I’m curious,” Tira confessed. “What was living in the tower like, Xolana?”

 

“Well...” Xolana contemplated. “Imagine the coldest, dankest and most uncomfortable dungeon you can imagine... then add dizzying heights and the worst company you can imagine.”

 

“So.... nothing had changed when we visited,” Tira muttered, remembering the sheer discomfort she felt being surrounded by so much stone.

 

“You were there?” Xolana asked, intrigued.

 

“I was clearing another room when Conrí and the others found you,” Tira told the mage. “And I tend to stay out of sight whenever possible. Habits that come with being a hunter.

 

“Well... I'm glad you didn't clear me,” Xolana said, slightly uncomfortable with how Tira put her statement. “I will speak freely, though. The tower was not a nice place to be. I mean, even ignoring the obvious, no privacy! Forced celibacy! Can you imagine it!?” she shuddered in disgust.

 

“To be fair, Amell, your quarters were pretty private,” Tristan pointed out. “I mean you did have that giant bookshelf blocking your bed from sight.”

 

“And not by accident,” Xolana added with a devilish smirk. “I had my ways... even though male company was still hard to come by, I made sure to keep myself... sated.”

 

“I'd imagine that was more difficult when you were in the apprentice dorms,” Leliana smirked.

 

“Maybe...” Xolana allowed, flicker her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe not,” she smirked.

 

“Really?” Leliana asked, intrigued. “In a room with that many people piled in bunk beds?”

 

“I _may_ have ruined an entire generation of Circle Mages during my apprenticeship...” Xolana gave an angelic laugh that fooled no one.

 

“ _May_ have?” Tristan snorted. “I'm convinced it was you who drove Kelli over the bleeding edge.”

 

“I had nothing to do with her downfall,” Xolana protested with a derisive snort. “Though it is a shame. Now those were some beautiful breasts…” her expression became reminiscent.

 

“The girl who was convinced her magic was a curse?” Leliana asked. When Xolana nodded, she grew thoughtful. “Yes, I see your point. A shame... she reminded me of a few of the sisters in the Cloister...”

 

Xolana became serious, a rare mood for her. “Many of us wind up thinking our gift was actually a curse. We are indoctrinated to think that way. What else do you expect?”

 

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize... Then again, I had never thought of it to be honest. I grew up thinking mages needed training and the Circle was the best thing for them. I never knew how difficult the Chantry made life for the mages.”

 

“Leliana dear...” Xolana traced Leliana’s jaw line with her finger. “Gorgeous, beautiful, safe little girl. Can you imagine what it's like, living in a place like that... hated by everyone, growing up being taught that you're a thing to be feared and hated?” she stared deep into the bard’s eyes. 

 

Leliana shook her head. “No... I can't.”

 

“Well, you're a warden or soon will be,” Conrí spoke as they approached the center of town. “You don't have to go back.”

 

Xolana laughed. “I'll face any number of darkspawn before returning there any day. No ten ogres could manage to drag me back.”

 

“Think of it this way,” Blair pointed out. “Any templar tries to take you back, you're allowed to zap them!”

 

Xolana, with electricity dangerously sparking in her eyes and a manic smirk on her face, raised an arm with wild fire swirling all around it. “Seems like you just made her day,” Serena chuckled.

 

Xolana soon calmed down and gave a lecherous grin around the group. “Anyone up for celebrating?” she asked.

 

Erin chuckled, shaking her head. “Let's get some rooms to stay in first before any of us celebrate anything.”

 

“I suppose I can settle for that,” Xolana agreed.

 

“I believe I shall wait outside,” Shale rumbled as they neared the building with a sign that read White Knight Inn. “I do not think a flimsy human building could hold something like me.”

 

Conrí shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Deal with the nightjars and owls.” Shale grumbled and stood beneath the awning of inn, glaring hatefully into the trees when it heard the screech of a tawny owl. Conrí suppressed a chuckle at the golems distaste for winged creatures of any kind. _I do wonder how it feels about bats…_ _ah well. Thoughts for another time._ The group entered the inn and booked a few rooms. Most would have to share, but the rooms were fairly spacious for such a small town.

 

Later in the evening, everyone had gathered in the tavern area of the inn, drinking and talking amongst themselves. Blair looked up from her mug to watch Xolana, Morrigan and Tristan in a deep conversation. _Magical stuff, no doubt,_ she thought. Taking a last gulp of ale, she stood up and made her way over to the trio of mages. Xolana was sorting through her supply of potion ingredients.

 

“Xolana, I don't mean to interrupt...” she said, pausing when the mages looked up at her quizzically. “But would you mind if I had a word with you?”

 

“Of course Blair, what can I help you with?” Xolana asked with a friendly smile.

 

Blair scratched her neck nervously. “It’s a bit embarrassing… would you mind somewhere a bit more private?” Xolana cocked her head curiously, but nodded and promised Morrigan and Tristan to resume the conversation when she returned. Blair led the way back to her table. She glanced about, relived when she say they have some privacy from the rest of the group and sat down. “Look, I know it’s really none of my business, but.... You and Zevran...”

 

Xolana furrowed her brow slightly. “Look if you're concerned, it's really nothing serious. Conrí and Leliana already gave me the speech, I'm being careful. And he's really not as bad a guy as everyone seems to think. I really don't think he's going to go back to the Crows.”

 

“No, no, it’s nothing like that...” Blair assured the mage. “I trust him... I’m just...” she sighed and poured another tankard of ale from her decanter. “Andraste's granny panties, I can't believe I’m acting like this...”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow. “By the Maker Blair, are you ok? What on earth is going o-...... oh,” Xolana’s eyes widened. “Oh wait... are you...? Oh my.”

 

Blair hid her face. “Creators save me, I’m acting like a jealous lover and I’m not even sleeping with him...”

 

“Blair, I... I mean... You... Uh...” Xolana took a deep breath to stop stammering along with Blair's embarrassment and finally spoke normally. “Look does... does he know? I mean, have you spoken to Zevran?”

 

“............... No.....” Blair’s voice was muffled by her hands. “I mean, I’ve shot him down so many times I’m almost positive he thinks I’m not interested. It doesn't help matters that I’m... ya know...”

 

“Oh Blair...” Xolana sighed with a small smile. “Sweetie. I don't think he thinks that. In fact, I'm pretty sure Zevran enjoys a good hunt. Look, I... Like I said, Zevran and I are... not really that serious. And I don't want to hurt you. If you want I will... you know, stop. I could even talk to him if you want?”

 

“I… I don't know...” Blair mumbled. “Wouldn't you talking to him for me make me seem like a coward?”

 

“Don't worry,” Xolana chuckled mildly. It was a bit amusing to see the normally serious and confident elf mumbling in embarrassment. “It's not like I will go and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Zevran, I think Blair is crushing on you so we can't sleep together anymore.’ I promise I'll show more tact.”

 

Blair smiled shyly. “Thanks Xolana. I'm sorry to interrupt your... playtimes, as you put it… If it doesn't work out, I’ll be the last to object if you two start again.”

 

“Blair. It's ok. I'll... figure out something else,” Xolana assured the elf.

 

“I noticed you've been watching Leliana for a while now,” Blair commented.

 

“Well...” Xolana chuckled nervously. “Am I that obvious?

 

“Only if you're not Leliana,” Blair chuckled. “Don't worry, I think I’m the only one who's really noticed. Well, Zevran might have, but I’d think he'd have teased you about if so.”

 

“....maybe you're right,” Xolana admitted after a moment. “Well... like I said, I'll figure it out. Don't worry about me, ok?”

 

“Just... don't starve yourself, alright?” Blair muttered, losing the smile. “I've never had.... well, you know, but I’ve heard it’s rather unhealthy to go too long without after the first time.”

 

“You.... mean...?” Xolana’s eyes widened.

 

“What, that I’m a virgin?” Blair sighed. “Yeah... never had the opportunity, really.”

 

“Oh...wow,” Xolana breathed. “Well... you certainly couldn't do any better than Zevran on your first go.”

 

“Yes... I’ve... heard your approval...” Blair blushed. “Several times and quite loudly.”

 

“...Uh...” Xolana flushed as well. “Sorry.”

 

Blair’s blush deepened and she hid her face again. “I think I should be the one apologizing since I... Never mind...”

 

“No, no, no... let's stop this, we're apologizing in circles. I promise it's ok.”

 

Blair peeked between her fingers. “Then it doesn't bother you that I...?”

 

Xolana cleared her throat. “For the last time, it's ok.”

 

“Um... okay. Thanks. Now, can we change the subject before I potentially blush myself to death?”

 

Xolana chuckled. “Of course,”  the pair returned to Morrigan and Tristan, allowing Blair to pass on some of her own information related to the poisonous plants that didn’t grow in the Korcari Wilds. Not long after, Zevran reentered the tavern. Xolana smirked when she noticed the Antivan elf and turned to Blair, the smirk growing. Blair blushed and downed the rest of her ale before moving off to talk to Zevran. Xolana couldn’t help but chuckle when Zevran led Blair upstairs.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, after Blair and Zevran finally emerged from their room, she blushing and he with a cocky smirk, the group headed to the cave not far outside of the village. 

 

“Ancestors,” Serena breathed as she spied the cave. “You could march an army ten wide through here. Its definitely been widened artificially. But not by dwarves or even humans, that’s for sure. Dug with claws and raw strength. But by what, I couldn’t say.”

 

“Well, let’s find out why the old spirit sent us here,” Conrí rumbled. He led the way towards the cave. As they approached, a deep, cranky voice echoed from within the cave.

 

“Yes, I’ve heard the word of Andraste. No, I don’t need to hear it again. Now if you can please leave me be…”   
  
Conrí and the others glanced at each other, confused and even slightly amused. “Uh… we’re not missionaries,” Erin called.   
  
“Traders, then?” came the voice again. “No, I’m not interested in Orlesian fur coats, or Nevarran ink wells, or dwarven lidded tankards. “

 

“Not traders either,” Conrí called, his amusement growing.

 

“Then who the bloody hell are you?”

 

Conrí glanced at the others quickly before stepping forward. “Grey Wardens. An old Sylvan calling itself the Grand Oak said someone here wanted to meet people like us.”

 

“A Sylvan, you say?” the voice sounded less cranky and more interested in hearing what the eclectic group had to say. “So, you are Grey Wardens? Not the safest time to be claiming to be one of them.”

 

“Perhaps,” Conrí allowed. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

 

“Hm. Well, you have my attention. Perhaps it would be best to have this conversation… face to face,” a shuffling came from deep in the cave. “Though… I must ask you to remain calm. I am… not what most would expect.”

 

A low thumping and scraping followed the being’s words. Garik gulped when a pair of glowing ice blue eyes shined out of the shadows of the cave. “Boss?” he said, his voice an octave too high. “I think I know what carved that cave!”

 

Conrí, in spite of everything, looked at the dwarf incredulously as a deep violet reptilian head emerged from the cave. The Grand Oak had sent them to the cave of a dragon.

 


	28. New Allies and Old Enemies

 

“Atashi!” Sten barked, seizing his axe.

 

The old dragon scowled and did something Conrí still couldn’t believe. It spoke. “Now, none of that, Qunari!” the dragon snapped. “I did warn you that my form was not what one would expect.”

 

Conrí swallowed and put his hand on the haft of Sten’s axe. He turned to the Qunari, who met his gaze, and nodded. Sten grunted and lowered his axe. Conrí turned back to the dragon. “I must say, when the Grand Oak sent us this way, this may be the last thing I expected. I was unaware dragons could speak.”

 

The dragon snorted, smoke curling from its nostrils. “Most cannot. At least, not the overgrown lizards you call High Dragons.”

 

Conrí frowned. “Are you one of the remaining Old Gods, then?”

 

The dragon gave a raspy chuckle, more smoke billowing from its maw and nose. “Bah. Time does have a way of slipping past you. Last I heard them referred to as divine, these ‘Old Gods’ were merely ‘the Gods.’ But no. I am not of the draconic deities of the Tevinter Empire.”

 

Conrí relaxed very slightly. So this wasn’t an Archdemon waiting to happen… “So. I suppose the million sovereign question is… why did you wish to meet us? Those like us, anyway.”

 

The dragon rumbled slightly, shaking its wings as though they were cramped. “I’ve no wish to see this land covered by Blight. And I’ve still some life in these old bones. Beyond that, I’ll leave for another time. While my help may be of little use in gathering allies… I could for instance, roast a battalion of darkspawn or two.” The dragon seemed to smirk.

 

Conrí nodded, remembering Flemeth’s dragon form during their flight from Lothering and the devastation she had reeked. A dragon could be a valuable ally indeed. “Very well. As you no doubt know, we have no luxury of turning aside help. I believe, for now, we can call this a cautious partnership. I am Conrí Cousland, unofficial Warden Commander of Fereldan.”

 

The dragon chuckled again and extended a forepaw with one talon forward. Conrí, morbidly amused, extended his hand and shook the dragon’s talon. “Perhaps to… sweeten the deal, as they say, you might be interested in some of the items I’ve collected over the years.”

 

“An olive branch… or a bribe?” Zevran asked quietly. “Though I do rather like the thought of safely sifting through a dragon’s hoard.”

 

“Be careful, little elf,” the dragon rumbled. “Some of my collection are rather old and fragile.”

 

“I shall be the paragon of cautiousness, my large friend,” Zevran vowed.

 

“But what do we call you?” Tira asked. “You never introduced yourself.”

 

“Hm,” the dragon hummed. “The Alamarri knew me as Draco. I suppose it will do.”

 

“Draco?” Tristan asked. “You do know that is old Arcanum for dragon, I hope.”

 

The dragon, Draco, laughed. “Aye. The Alamarri weren’t known for their creativity, mageling. Instead of calling me dragon in the common tongue, they called me dragon in their enemies’ tongue. T’was a delightful irony when the Legates already knew my name.”

 

“So you fought against the Tevinters when they invaded Fereldan,” Erin asked as she made her way into the cave. 

 

“Aye. It seemed fair with the Tevinters having their own dragons at their backs,” Draco stretched his wings and settled near the mouth of the cave. 

 

The group was cautious almost to the point of delicacy as they sifted through the mounds of old and interesting items Draco had gathered through the centuries. As they grew more certain that he would not attack without warning, they grew bolder. Not to the point they were throwing things about, however, but not as shy about examining something heavy, so long as it remained very near to where it was found.

 

Conrí was examining two suits of armor on a pair of mannequins. One looked lighter, made of what Conrí could only guess was drakeskin while the other looked similar to mage robes commonly worn by apostates, with armored bracers and chestplate. Both seemed to be etched with numerous lyrium runes. He recognized a few, but others escaped him. “Draco, I noticed these sets of armor. I recognize the lighter set as something the Dalish might use, but the other escapes me.”

 

“It is old Tevinter Battlemage armor,” Draco rumbled. “One of the last of its kind. The Chantry destroyed most of them when it made its way into Fereldan. That particular set is said to have been worn by the son of an Archon, sent to help quell the barbarians. Much as with original owner of the Juggernaut armor Conrí wears, the son fell not to the Alamarri, but to his own lieutenants. As far as I can tell it is known as Luscan’s Might in the common tongue. Though I doubt very highly that it is more than a name. The other is not of Dalish make, but older, from the time of the Dales if I’m not mistaken. Made by the few who were able to learn the magic of Arlathan. It was made for an Arcane Warrior with roguish leanings. My Elvhen is not perfect, but its name is something along the lines of Numin Fen’Harel. Tears of the Dread Wolf. Supposedly the armor carries a blessing to ward off Fen’Harel. Though again, I don’t put much stock in superstitions.”

 

Conrí glanced at Tristan and Xolana. “This could be useful, especially if you’re going to be getting into the thick of things, and they look to be about your sizes.”

 

Tristan approached the Battlemage Armor, Luscan’s Might. He’d heard of this armor in old textbooks, but never anticipated seeing it, let alone being able to wear it. He pulled off his robes, now clad only in the loose trousers and undershirt he’d taken to wearing under them. With some help, he slid on the main robe, which was designed with mobility in mind, followed by the boots, bracers and finally the chestplate and tasset. It was lighter than he expected, though still heavier than his normal robes. “I could get used to this,” he grinned at Morrigan.

 

The witch smirked. “It does seem fitting. And look, I found a new staff to go with it,” she presented a staff, slightly shorter than his current weapon. What made it unusual, though, was that a third of the total length was taken up by a long blade. With the grip near the center, he could hold it with one hand if he needed the blade, while he could devote two hands when casting. He could even use it as a spear if he wished.

 

“That is actually a Warden artifact I discovered deep in the Wilds many decades ago,” Draco supplied. “Unfortunately, its name has been lost to

history, if it ever had one at all.” Xolana came back, clad in her new armor with a pair of new daggers at her hip. “Ah, now those I know. They are known as the Phoenix Claws. Even I don’t know much beyond their name, but they are supposed to be part of a set. A few sets of armor, a bow and sword. Alas, I’ve never seen any of them. I suppose they’ll get more use with you, little mage than they would collecting dust here.”

 

Xolana’s eyes widened. “This sword… did it happen to have a similar color scheme as the daggers?” she asked.

 

“Aye, so the tales say,” Draco nodded. “Why?”

 

Xolana glanced at Conrí before continuing. “Back at Soldier’s Keep, we found a cache left behind by Commander Asturian. It held a pair of swords, one crimson and gold while the other was azure and silver.”

 

Draco’s head snapped to Xolana. “You have the Phoenix and the Griffon?”

 

Xolana nodded excitedly. “We didn’t have much chance to look around, but there may be many more treasures from ages past within that cache.”

 

Draco pondered for a moment. “I would very much like to see some of these arms one day, if it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

 

“If we survive this Blight, then I don’t see the harm in it,” Conrí agreed. 

 

Draco laughed merrily, smoke billowing from his nostrils. “Excellent. Wardens seem to find treasure that would be the envy of any dragon.”

 

Conrí nodded. “Everyone have what they need?” after numerous sounds of ascension, he beckoned the group. “Then we’d better move out. Denerim is our next stop. If Arl Eamon is going to be a benefit to us, we’d better get started on finding this relic. Shall we meet you back here, Draco?”

 

“Aye,” Draco agreed. “If I need to move camp, as it were, I will find a way to get in contact with you. In fact… You there, elf mage,” he turned to Tristan, who jumped slightly at being addressed directly. “Look in that chest there. There is what looks like a simple pyramid made of blue crystal.”

 

Tristan did as he was bade and pulled something from an old iron chest. The pyramid of shining blue crystal was small enough to be hung from a necklace if so desired. “I’ve seen markings like this in the elven ruins…”

 

“Aye, ‘tis a relic from Arlathan, used by parents to keep in contact with their children. It doesn’t have the range of other such things used by the elves such as the Eluvian, but it should work anywhere in Fereldan.”

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow. “Need a way to track us, I see.”

 

Draco snorted. “Well, would it not be a waste of time to search all over the countryside for you?”

 

“A fair point,” Conrí admitted. “But we need to go. We have much to do. Farewell, Draco.”

 

“And you as well, Grey Wardens.”

 

* * *

 

A few days passed, and the group headed towards the capital of Fereldan. Conrí and Leliana led the way, chatting amiably. At the moment, they were discussing Leliana’s experiences before Marjolaine’s betrayal. “…Sometimes, all I had to was toss a glance and a smile. Men read promises into such things and will go to great lengths to see those promises fulfilled.”

 

“I’m quite sure I’m immune to your charms, my dear bard,” Conrí chuckled.

 

“That is what they all say,” Leliana snickered. “I suppose we will never know, will we? I’m certainly not going to test you.”

 

Conrí cocked his head. “Why not?” he asked, sounding almost disappointed. 

 

“Since we are relying on each other, we should not have a relationship based on insincerity, yes? That would be foolish.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Conrí snarked.

 

“Alas, I cannot partake in this ‘fun,’” Leliana mourned melodramatically. “The Chantry frowns on fun, of all kinds. Especially the best kinds.”

 

“What if I decided to use my charms on you instead?” Conrí asked with a roguish smirk.

 

Leliana laughed. “That would be something to see. He thinks he’ll charm me.”

 

“What?” Conrí demanded, mock offended. “Am I not attractive?”

 

“I didn’t say that!” Leliana protested with a small grin. “I did say it would be something to see, didn’t i? You are an interesting person, Conrí. Sometimes, I don’t know what to make of you, but… I like it.”

 

Conrí sighed. “I suppose I’d be a complete failure at it,” he said, averting his eyes.

 

He had to hide a grin when Leliana seemed to take him seriously. “Oh, no, don’t say that! I’m sure you’ll be just fine! If it will make you feel better, I can fake being charmed.”

 

Conrí turned back, a sly smile on his face. “I’d hate for you to have to fake anything with me.”

 

“Ooh, very clever,” Leliana giggled, realizing she’d been had. “I see what you did there.”

 

“Just admit you want me, Leliana,” Conrí told her boldly. Or brashly, depending on your view. 

 

Leliana burst out giggling madly. “Silly boy! That was so clonky! Awkward! Try again.”

 

The smirk never left Conrí’s lips. “It did what I intended it to do. Made you laugh, no?”  


“Maybe,” Leliana began to get her giggling under control. “You’re a tricky one. But perhaps it would be best if we continue this later. The others may not find our banter as charming as I do. And have much to…” Leliana noticed Conrí was no longer looking at her, and had held out a hand to stop her. Conrí had caught a glimpse of something in the bushes behind her… like the glint of light off metal. “What is it?” Leliana asked with confusion written on her face as Conrí looked past her. But before he could answer, the Warden heard a noise; a creak… like the sound of a bowstring being drawn taut.

 

“TO ARMS!” Conrí roared, pushing Leliana out of the way as an arrow flew straight at them. The missile missed slamming into the Orlesian’s side by a hairsbreadth, hitting the Juggernaut’s breastplate and ricocheting off. A feral roar came from the bushes as a number of tall, horned, well armored figures emerged, weapons drawn, ready for combat. Several more arrows slashed through the air, but Wynne shouted an incantation and an arcane shield flickered into existence around them, sending the arrows skidding away.

 

“Tal-Vashoth vermin!” Sten roared. “The Qun demands your death!”

 

One of these Tal-Vashoth hurtled towards Conrí, swinging at him with an axe in one hand and a dagger in the other. Conrí managed to block the axe blade with his bracer, but the dagger nicked his arm, finding a gap in the plate and stabbing deep. The Kossith pulled it free with a jubilant exclamation, but as the dagger came loose, a spurt of blood droplets came with it, spattering the mercenary’s face… and its triumphant yell turned into an agonized screech as the Tal-Vashoth dropped its weapons and began clawing at its face, screaming as though it were on fire. Conrí caught a brief glimpse of the warrior’s face… and saw patches of burnt flesh; for some reason, the Kossith had reacted to his blood as if it were acid.

 

Dabbing the finger tips of his right gauntlet into the cut, Conrí lashed out with his bloody hand, the droplets of blood seemingly becoming blades and slicing into the Kossith’s face and the sides of its neck. As it staggered, Leliana leapt onto its back and drove her daggers into the gap between helmet and gorget; the Tal-Vashoth fell to his knees, bleeding in torrents down his front. Leliana kicked the mortally wounded warrior off her blades without preamble.

 

Avernus’s work? Conrí wondered, looking at the small crimson razors embedded in the Kossith’s armor and the trees behind it and wondering if a detour back to Soldier’s Peak might be of benefit in the near future. First things first, he shook himself aware as another arrow slammed off his armor.

 

Leliana nodded to Conrí, and then was blasted sideways as a fist sized piece of stone slammed into her side; she hit the ground hard, clutching her side. Two arrows slammed into the ground a hairsbreadth from her. “They’ve got a mage!” Conrí yelled, but Morrigan and Tristan were already on it, Morrigan trapping the young female elf in a block of ice, which Tristan shattered into icicles with a magically conjured boulder. Zevran ducked under the swing of a maul by another Tal-Vashoth, then blocked desperately as the maul descended towards his head, catching it by the haft in a cross. The Kossith was so focused on the elf, it didn’t realize Zevran was merely holding it in place until too late; Kiba hit the mercenary like lightning, slamming into the Kossith’s left side and sending it toppling. The mabari’s fangs were closed around the victim’s throat before it had time to rise. Alistair brought his mace down on the knee of another foe, before staving in their chest with a second blow, and Shale, holding another Tal-Vashoth by the throat, merely tightened the grip of its fist until there was an audible crack as armor and bone gave under the relentless pressure, leaving her holding a limp, headless corpse.

 

All that was left was their leader, desperately loosing arrows in a vain effort to save his fading life, but with a warrior bearing down on him and a shield of arcane energy warding off such projectiles, it was futile. The man was still trying to loose another arrow when Conrí brought his family Claymore down on his forearm. The man screamed as the force of the blow broke his arm at the elbow, his mouth opening to yell… and then freezing in place as the enchantment of paralysis took effect. Grinning wolfishly, Conrí brought his sword up for a decapitating blow.

 

“Stop, don’t kill him!”

 

“I’ll assume there’s a reason for this pointless display of mercy, or is it just the insipid teachings of your precious Chantry reasserting themselves?” Morrigan sneered as Leliana stormed over to the paralyzed mercenary.

 

Leliana glared at the witch’s acerbic comment. “He is no common bandit; none of them were,” she coldly replied. “Their weapons and armor are of fine make, and they’re well trained. Keep this one alive for now; the only difference is that we might get some useful information out of him.”

 

After waiting five minutes for the paralysis enchantment to wear off, Conrí seized the mercenary leader the second the spell was gone and drove a knee into the fellow’s balls. Wincing, the Mercenary collapsed to the forest floor and Leliana went on the offensive.

 

“You know full well what I’m talking about, so don’t bother trying to lie. Who are you?”

 

“Someone who regrets taking you on,” the mercenary griped. “Someone dumps a purse of gold in my lap, tells me and my boys it’s an easy job; kill the little red-haired girl, deal with the others as you please.”

 

“Kill the-… You came to kill me?” Leliana seemed shocked, but it was gone in an instant; she was back to the calm, controlled air of indifference she was trying to project. “Who sent you? Why am I wanted dead?”

 

“I don’t pay to know why someone wants someone else dead. I just need to know where to go, and where to get my money. Bah, money!” the mercenary cursed. “I’ll be lucky to get away with my life, way things are going...”

 

“Pity,” Conrí replied in a voice so cold even he barely recognized it. “There’s no reason to let you live if you’ve nothing to offer in return,” Conrí lifted his sword and the mercenary’s eyes went wide with fear.

 

“Wait, wait. I do have some information...”

 

“Speak quickly,” Leliana snapped, and the mercenary began to get to his feet, pulling something from a pouch at his belt and holding it out. Conrí snatched it and quickly examined what he’d been given; it looked to be a crudely drawn map of the Market District. One of the houses was ringed; clearly the location he was talking about. He handed it to Leliana.

 

“I’ve no quarrel with you,” the mercenary wheezed. “Wasn’t me who wanted you dead... but I know where you can find the one who does? I’ve directions to the house; it’s in Denerim. Best I can do.”

 

“Thank you. Now leave. I never want to see you again,” Leliana spoke in a hoarse voice little more than a whisper. 

 

Conrí nodded in agreement, raising the sword in his hands warningly. “Get lost, before I change my mind,” he growled.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll not trouble you no more,” the mercenary muttered as he hobbled away, his broken arm dangling at his side. Leliana turned away to examine the information; as soon as he was sure she wasn’t looking, Conrí made a discrete nod to Zevran and Sten, who departed without question after the trail the mercenary had left. No one would ever know but the wolves. Leliana’s capacity for mercy was an admirable trait but Conrí had no wish for whoever had sent those thugs to know their men had failed until they were breaking down the paymaster’s door. No sense in leaving loose ends.

 

“It's Marjolaine,” Leliana mumbled after a while. “It has to be...”

 

Xolana cocked her head slightly as the name rang a bell. “Marjolaine?” her eyes widened. “Oh dear…”

 

“...From what you told us,” Erin hissed, fingers itching at her weapons’ hilts, but remaining calm for the moment. “I take it you're not happy about that, either...”

 

“No, not pleased in the least,” Leliana groaned. “Maybe someone saw me... maybe she's finally found me...”

 

“Leliana,” Xolana remained alert but squeezed the bard’s fingers reassuringly as her other hand also remained close to her weapons. “If it really is her, then whatever she wants - especially if it's you - we will make sure she doesn't get it.”

 

“Aye,” Conrí agreed, spying Zevran and Sten rejoining the group as if they hadn’t left. “The merc said Denerim. You have any ideas?”

 

“Perhaps the old house she stayed in last time she was in Fereldan,” Leliana suggested. “I still remember where it is. In fact, I believe it is the same house circled on the map.”

 

“Then that's where we're headed,” Erin said with an air of finality. Xolana nodded in agreement.

 

“I can't ask for your help...” Leliana mumbled.

 

Xolana drew a dagger with a smirk and twirled it artfully in her fingers. “Then don't. We'll come and help you anyway.”

 

“What?” Leliana squeaked. “But... the blight!”

 

“This bitch decided to interfere,” Conrí growled. “As long as you're with us, Leli, you're under our protection. That means, anyone attacks you, they deal with us.”

 

“Anyone wants to touch my Leli; they have to go through me first,” Xolana cried.

 

“And through me,” Erin nodded.

 

Blair nodded as Tira put her two bits in. “I'm with them,” she said.

 

“Balls...” Tristan groaned. “Me too.” Xolana shot a glare at the elf, who rolled his eyes.

 

“See, Leliana?” Erin smiled. “We're a team. You have nothing to fear.”

 

“Hey, any chance to loot some rich broad's house, ya know I’m in,” Garik snickered.

 

“Garik you incorrigible bastard,” Xolana chuckled.

 

“Hey, what can I say?” the dwarven rogue shrugged. “I'm a pragmatist.”

 

Xolana laughed again but then looked around their jolly group. “So, are we going or what?”

 

“Lead on, Leliana,” Erin gestured. “We're not leaving your side.”

 

Leliana smiled and wiped a few stray tears away. “Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse and trembling.

 

Conrí rested a hand on her shoulder. “We need a plan,” he said.

 

“And what, storming the fort isn't a plan?” Xolana demanded.

 

Erin shook her head in despair. “What's gotten into you? You're supposed to be SMART...” she sighed, adding in a mumble, “Albeit eccentric, granted.”

 

“Come on,” Conrí gestured. “Denerim is only a few days from here. If we're lucky, we'll get there by nightfall tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, an argument had broken out, though not between the usual combatants. Surprisingly, it was between the two resident dwarves in the camp. Garik had demanded to know why Serena had been so standoffish as of late with both himself and Xolana, whom he had been training. Everyone ignored the argument until something Garik said caught the attention of most in camp.

 

“What a nug sucking second… you think I have the hots for Sparkles over there?” Garik stared for a long moment before slumping to the ground holding his belly as he laughed himself to tears. 

 

Serena, embarrassed, kicked him as he rolled around laughing. “What is so damn funny, Brand?” she demanded.

 

“Can't breathe...” Garik wheezed with laughter, tears streaming down his face and his ribs beginning to ache furiously.

 

Xolana who had been unaware of most of the conversation but heard Garik say ‘Sparkles’ and shouted from somewhere in the distance. “I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING ME SPARKLES YOU CRETIN!”

 

Garik rolled over, cackling and shouted. “Amell, you've gotta hear this! Princess over here thinks I have the hots for you!”he let out a mad giggle. “And its pronounced 'Duster,’ Miss Prissy.”

 

Xolana started walking over, trying not to leave her jaw behind where it dropped upon hearing this. “I prefer Cretin,” she said after a long moment. “The Orlesians just have a way of insulting people... but really? Serena... Are you nuts?”

 

Serena blushed a dark shade of red. “Well what was I supposed to think?! You two spend all that time together, fighting...”

 

Xolana was stunned. “He kicks my ass and I try to kick his back. When have you ever heard me make even a remotely flirty comment about it!?” she demanded. Serena grumbled loudly and blushed harder, feeling very foolish now. “Wait, Serena, is this why....” Xolana shut her mouth and stared at Serena, understanding dawning. She sighed dramatically after a tense few moments and turned around. “Frankly I've had so many lessons with Garik by now, I was starting to think that it would be good for me to learn some new techniques soon, anyway... Zevran already agreed to help me from here,” Xolana’s eyes darted around camp to find out where he was to go and quickly ‘ask’ him to make sure it was so. “So Garik, be prepared to get floored in our last lesson this evening cause I'm not holding back!”

 

Garik snickered. “I've taught you everything you know, Sparkles. Doesn't mean I taught you everything I know.”

 

Xolana huffed. “I might still not manage to beat you today, Dirtbrain, but I will definitely get you back for all those bruises one day.”

 

Garik smirked but turned back to Serena as the mage moved off towards the Antivan assassin. “So that's what's jammed a deepstalker up you coal mine for the last month? You thought, me and Amell? She's not my type, Princess.”

 

“Nothing has ‘jammed a deepstalker up my coal mine’…” Serena snapped indignantly. “And I don't even want to know what other colorful analogies you have in your repertoire.” 

 

“You sure?” Garik grinned. “I have some pretty interesting ones.”

 

“I don't want to hear them. Keep your filth to yourself,” she sat down and started sharpening her axe. It didn’t really need it, but she needed to do something. “Besides, if you're not training our wanna-be rogue anymore, you can focus on your own skills again. You're getting slow.”

 

Garik sat next to her, much to her annoyance.“Pretty sure last time we sparred I had you eating dirt, Princess.”

 

Serena response came out like a growl. “That's cause you fight dirty, Brand. I'd have you begging for mercy within seconds if you could just stick to fighting fair.”

 

“Not much incentive for me to fight fair, then is there?” Serena grumbled at the rogue’s response. “Aw, you're cute when you pout!”

 

Serena stood up menacingly, axe at the ready. “Who's pouting!?” she demanded.

 

“Sulking then,” Garik snickered.

 

“I was raised a dwarven Princess, Duster; I don't SULK.”

 

“Yeah, not buying it,” Garik stuck out his tongue.This was the final straw for Serena. She growled, deciding she didn't want to play around anymore and raised her axe to attack Garik in a rage. Garik was ready, however. He grabbed her wrist and flipped her over his shoulder before pinning her arms to the ground. “You were saying?” he teased. Serena bucked and tried angrily to get him off... to no avail for the moment. He was sturdier than she gave him credit for. She settled into the grass with a sigh. Garik smirked. “I didn't catch that one. Or are you choking on your pride right now?”

 

Serena saw red. “RAAAAAAAH!!!” she snarled, throwing Garik off with a particularly vicious buck and kick to the balls and rolled over to pin him under her and her axe instead.

 

Garik winced slightly, thankful for the... jewel protection of his scale mail. After a moment, the smirk returned. “Someone likes being on top.”

 

Serena growled, her axe pushing against his throat a bit. “You gonna spit out many more clever jives, Duster!?”

 

“Don't act like you don't love it by now,” Garik teased, not a bit concerned about the axe.

 

“You must've spent too much time on the surface, Brand, I think you're starting to dream,” Serena snarled.

 

“Now that's just mean,” Garik pouted before popping his hips suddenly and rolling back over, pinning Serena again and knocking her axe aside. Serena continued resisting but eventually ran out of energy - she wouldn't get herself out of this one. “Now that I have your undivided attention, I’d like to know. Say I did like Amell. Why does it bother you so?”

 

“I never said it bothered me!” Serena barked, but her charcoal eyes revealed her lie.

 

“You're mouth says one thing, but your eyes say something else,” Garik purred.

 

Serena narrowed them angrily. “And what exactly do you think my eyes say?”

 

“Well, at the moment they say I’m getting a mite too close to the truth,” Garik pointed out.

 

“Ha, you wouldn't know the truth if it slapped you in the face,” Serena shot back.

 

Garik leaned in slightly. “Then what is the truth? Why is my teaching Amell an issue for you? If I didn't know better...”

 

“You'll not say another word if you know what's good for you, Brand,” Serena warned.

 

Garik smirked yet again. “Your eyes betray you, Serena. If I didn't know better... I’d say you were jealous.”

 

Serena looked shocked and then started laughing, though even she could hear how forced and desperate it was. “That is the most ridiculous thing I've heard in a LONG time.”

 

Garik rolled his eyes. “I'm sure. After all, what would a princess want with a brand, right?” Ordinarily Serena would argue that Garik shouldn’t deride himself, but he was hitting a little too close to home at the moment. “I know what I saw, Serena. Lie to yourself if you wish. In fact, I’ll make you a deal. One thing to settle this.”

 

Serena was hesitant and suspicious. “I'm listening,” she said after a long moment.

 

“One kiss,” he said. “You dislike it, I leave you alone and never mention this again.”

 

“Excuse me?! WHAT!?” the dwarven warrior started struggling again but Garik held fast.

  
“What do you have to lose?” Garik asked.

 

“Why by the Stone would I EVER agree to such a STUPID idea!?”

 

“Morbid curiosity?” Garik shrugged.

 

Serena let out an angry grumble. “It's morbid alright…”

 

“And yet I see a bit of interest,” Garik grinned.

 

“I'm INTERESTED in getting out from under you!” Serena snapped.

 

Garik sighed. “I'm not asking you to get naked,” he pointed out.

 

“You better not!...” After a long moment Serena stopped struggling and let out a defeated sigh. “Ok fine. A quick peck and you let me out!”

 

Garik let go of her arms. “Agreed,” he ran a callused thumb over her cheek before leaning down to kiss Serena.

 

Serena was originally determined to remain stiff and not enjoy it but after only a few moments she begins to relax into the touch. Garik tangled his fingers in her short platinum blonde hair. She let out a slight gasp as he tugged on a bit of hair and brought her arms up around his shoulders as she all but melted into the kiss. He smiled slightly, but deepened the kiss a bit, lightly scratching Serena's scalp. Serena came to her senses slowly... and promptly pushed Garik off her with a hard punch to the face. She got up extremely red faced and grabbed her axe, waving it generically and ‘threateningly’ at Garik whilst still blushing furiously. “Don't.... DON'T YOU EVER DARE DO THAT AGAIN!” she yelled before storming off.

 

Garik sat where he had landed, surprised at first. But as he was wiping a bit of blood from his lip, he grinned wickedly. “Called it.”

 

Conrí looked up as Serena stormed passed. “What's got your panties in a knot, Aeducan?” he asked, having tuned the argument out sometime ago. Serena merely sent him a glare, her face burning scarlet. Conrí raised eyebrow as she all but dove into her tent. He turned to look back at Garik, still on his arse a dozen yards away. A smirk spread across his face as he met the dwarf’s gaze and he returned to preparing the fire pit for supper.

 

* * *

 

“So...” Garik sighed a few mornings later as they strolled through the capital’s Market District. “Where does one go in Denerim when looking for info?”

 

Serena had been pointedly avoiding him since that evening, all but fleeing whenever the rogue drew near, and spending most of her time with Tira and Erin. The pair had tactfully avoided mentioning the incident, but would giggle with glee when Serena wasn’t within earshot. 

 

In fact, Serena had gone darting off not long after they entered the market and had yet to return. Despite his lecherous way of dealing with the high strung woman, Garik was starting to get a bit worried.

 

Morrigan, Sten and Shale had elected to remain outside the city for the moment, at least until nightfall. No doubt a Qunari, a Golem and a woman who could be confused with a Chasind wilder would draw unneeded attention.

 

“Where one goes in any major city,” Conrí answered Garik’s question. “Taverns and brothels.”

 

“So, who volunteers to go where?” Xolana asked. “It'll go quicker if we split up and meet again...”

 

“Garik, Erin, Blair. You three find Serena and take the Gnawed Noble,” Conrí ordered. “From what I remember the bartender’s always been well connected with the… unofficial guilds. The rest of us will head to the Pearl. The madam Sanga knows pretty much everything going on in Denerim. You hear a lot during pillow talk.” Xolana gave a toothy grin, clearly happy about being picked for the Pearl. “Don't get too excited you two,” Conrí added, raising an eyebrow at the mage and Zevran. “We're going on business.”

 

Xolana feigned a look of intense disappointment while Zevran just laughed and made ridiculous comments, sarcastically feigning insult at the insinuation. The pair fell back after a moment and chatted on the way to the Pearl.

 

As they made to leave the Market, a guardsman with chevrons on his pauldrons that marked him as a sergeant. “Warden, may I have a moment?” he asked. “Sergeant Kylon, at your service.”

 

Conrí’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What can I do for you, guardsman?” they had hoped to keep a low profile while in the capital. So either they were very bad at this… or this Kylon had been expecting them.

 

“Just how do you know we're Wardens?” Erin demanded.

 

“Your likenesses was passed around to the senior guards. I must say they don't do you credit,” Kylon explained. “Don't worry, even if I believed what Rendon Howe has been spewing, I’m no fool. If I ordered my men to arrest you, they'd run and cry big sobby tears into their courtesans’ bosoms and leave me all alone to be skewered. I understand you are heading to the Pearl. If you're interested, I have a job for you.”

 

“Very well,” Conrí grunted, easing his hand away from the dagger at his hip. “I promise nothing, but I will hear you out.”

 

“Apparently some mercenaries have invaded the Pearl. Sanga has requested the guards assistance but...” Kylon glanced disdainfully at the guard next to him, who was picking his nose. “Well, if I sent my men in, someone might get, Maker forbid, hurt and then I’ll have to explain to their noble fathers that being a guard is actually dangerous.”

 

Xolana couldn't help but snort with laughter. “So you've decided to get the big baddies to do the job for you instead. I see how it is.”

 

“Ah, wherever you go, some things never change,” Zevran snickered. “Be it the beautiful Antiva or the fair Fereldan, people will always find a way to push their dirty business into someone else's lap. And this is exactly why the Crows continue to prosper.”

 

“This is no fault of Kylon,” Conrí commented fairly. “Let's face it, what makes up most of the force for the ‘less important’ areas?”

 

Kylon crossed his arms and snorted spitefully. “Lord Such-and-Such's illegitimate, untrained, moronic whelps.”

 

“Lots of those around in Antiva as well...” Zevran mused before getting lost in memories.

 

“Well...” Xolana pondered, turning to Conrí. “I guess since we're going there anyway, we might as well.”

 

“What's the pay?” Conrí asked after a moment of contemplating.

 

“Do a good job and I’ll see you get some silver in your pockets. Maybe even some gold,” Kylon assured him, obviously relieved. “Beat down any mercenaries who are acting up. I said beat down, don't kill. I want to make that very clear. Not on fire, or exploded, or whatever other grisly death you can dream up...” Kylon’s expression turned chagrined when Conrí cocked an eyebrow with a small smirk. “Sorry used to giving orders to my boys. Just leave them breathing and I’ll be happy.”

 

Zevran looked honestly disappointed. Xolana caught the expression. “Hey, I tell you something, we get into a fight, I'll pull you out and you can keep training me with knives, ok? So you don't have to hold back AS much.” Zevran smirked and nodded.

 

“Sign us up,” Conrí nodded.

 

“Happy hunting, Wardens.”

 

As they walked towards the docks and the Pearl, Xolana looked over to Leliana. “You're quiet, Leli,” she said softly.

 

“Hm?” Leliana looked up, her expression slightly hazy from lack of attention. “Oh. Sorry I was just thinking.”

 

“Everything ok...?” Xolana asked, concerned.

 

“I'm alright,” Leliana assured her. Xolana didn’t quite seem convinced but let it go for the moment.

 

Zevran’s smile grew wide as they approached the famous brothel. “Ahh, the Pearl... I grew up in a place such as this. They say you can never go home again, but for ten silvers an hour you can get pretty close.” Xolana knew she really shouldn't, but she had to really fight hard to hold back a grin.

 

* * *

 

Turns out the mercenary band wasn’t much use against a group of Wardens and their companions. Zevran dropped the last merc he was going to punch one more time when he spotted someone standing not far. 

 

A tall, voluptuous woman of Rivaini descent if her caramel skin and long dark hair was any indication. Possibly one of the western Free Marcher states, even. And she was wearing clothing even more scandalous than many of the women working at the Pearl. A simple white tunic covered her torso, though it was unlaced almost mouthwateringly to show off her impressive chest. Her flowing black hair was partially covered by a faded blue bandana while her long legs were sheathed in simple black trousers and high boots. At her hips was a pair of daggers with Rivaini script etched into the hilts. Zevran smiled broadly upon recognizing her. “Incredibile! Bela, cara mia, what a surprise to see you here.”

 

Xolana, Conrí and Leliana looked up into the direction of the newcomer when they heard Zevran's happy exclamation. The woman crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Well, look who it is,” she said, a small scowl on her lovely face. “So have you come to apologize for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and disappearing off into the night?”

 

Xolana’s eyebrows rose. “Now this I have got to hear... though she doesn't sound upset about it exactly.”

 

Zevran grinned roguishly. “You know it was just business, Bela. Business that worked out well for you. You inherited the Siren, no?”

 

The Rivaini woman scoffed slightly, fighting a smile. “Hmph. Suppose I never did like the greasy bastard. And the Siren treats me better than he ever did.”

 

Xolana cleared her throat. “Zev, wanna introduce us?”

 

“Indeed,” Zevran grinned. “This is Isabela. Queen of the Eastern Seas and sharpest blade in Llomerryn. And Bela you will no doubt be surprised to learn I am traveling with a number of Grey Wardens.”

 

“Sharpest blade in... color me intrigued,” Xolana looked to Conrí for a moment for permission to delve into this conversation. After all, they WERE in the Pearl on an agenda.

 

“Grey Wardens...?” Isabela asked, turning a sultry and intrigued smile on the group. “Charmed. My, my, Zevran, you have done well for yourself! They are a fine specimens, aren't they? I’ve always wondered if those stories they tell about Grey Warden ‘prowess’ are true...” she turned to address Xolana directly. “And as for you, gorgeous, watch yourself here. To the blokes who frequent this place, you’re nothing but a pair of tits and an arse, and trust me when I say they don’t hesitate to grab at both.”

 

Xolana couldn't help but smirk. “Zev, you've been holding out on us. I like her, you should've introduced us earlier,” she turned back to Isabela, a mischievous twinkle in her amethyst eyes. “Let me just say... the stories you heard, all true,” she pulled out one of her blades, twirling it around in her hand ‘absentmindedly’. “And as for the blokes...” she stopped twirling, grabbed the hilt and brought the blade down hard on the table next to her, sparks of flames spitting off the blade, stopping just short of severing a hand that was going for her backside but had then of course been hastily removed. “Just let them try.”

 

“Oooh, you I like. Might I ask what brings you here?” Isabela asked.

 

“Do you know anyone named Marjolaine?” Leliana questioned the woman.

 

Isabela shook her head. “’Fraid not, gorgeous. But, I could find out. I don’t mind offering you a berth for the night, as well, if you’d be willing to do me a favor in exchange. ‘Sides, it might be safer for you; I don’t give two shits about what the regent’s offering for you, but if some tavern keep or hostel owner finds out he’s got the most wanted people in Denerim kipping under his roof, he might not be so accepting, if you get my meaning...”

 

Xolana looked to Conrí and Leliana, waiting for an answer. She wanted to point that Zevran seems to trust Isabela, but realized that that might not necessarily make the situation any better should the others still distrust Zevran. Conrí looked to Leliana and gave a small shrug.

 

“Very well,” Leliana agreed after a moment of consideration. 

 

“Excellent!” Isabela clapped with a salacious grin. “To celebrate our new found friendship, I propose Zev, the brunette, the red head and handsome over there join me in my quarters.”

 

“Insatiable appetites as ever, Isabela...” Zevran sighed with an indulgent and eager smirk.

 

“Well, count me in,” Xolana winked.

 

“I'm afraid I must decline,” Conrí grunted.

 

“I as well,” Leliana agreed.

 

Zevran, seeing Isabela's look of disappointment, tossed an arm around her shoulders. “Do not fret, I know a woman who wouldn't take much convincing.”

 

“Spoilsports...” Xolana pouted and looked perhaps just a moment too long at Leliana before back to Zevran with a slightly frown of confusion. “And just who are you referring to?”

 

“Blair, of course!” Zevran grinned.

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow but decided against saying anything, turning back to Isabela instead. “So while he goes off to woo us an additional party member... sharpest blade in the Llomerryn, hm?”

 

“That's what they call me,” the Rivaini shrugged. “Come, my ship’s down by the docks, and I think you’ll find my cabins most… comfortable.” Xolana quickly followed, not needing to be invited twice.

 

* * *

 

“Hm, I must say I’m impressed,” Isabela commented on the way to the docks. “I've never met a mage who could fight with blades.”

 

“It's... kind of a long story, and something I only learnt to do recently,” Xolana admitted. “But I'm looking to better myself. I'm still so inept compared to a true Rogue.... I'm all but ashamed fighting next to Garik, Blair and Zev most of the time. And next to you I would be as well, I'm sure.”

 

“You don't give yourself enough credit, gorgeous,” Isabela argued. “You move like a rogue born and raised.”

 

“You're too kind...” Xolana muttered, a bit embarrassed.

 

“Now,” Isabela led the group up the gangplank to the deck of the Siren’s Call. “I want you to show me what you can really do.”

 

Xolana was taken aback. “You want to spar? Really?” she asked, caught flatfooted. “...I really thought I'd have to at least ASK.”

 

“Well, normally I would wait until after we've... gotten to know each other, but with Zevran off...” Isabela shrugged. “We have a little time to burn. Now, come on,” she drew her blades and settled into a relaxed stance.

 

“Well then,” Xolana drew her blades as well, her surprise fading into a smirk. “Let's see if I can hold my own against a true master like yourself.”

 

“Mm. Sweet talk already?” Isabela purred. “Darling, you're making me impatient.” She gestured with her blades before leaping at the Arcane Warrior in-training.

 

Xolana started dodging and parrying for moment until she could get a better feel for Isabela’s fighting style. She decided to refrain from any magic use for this, at least for the moment. Only after the first few attacks did the mage venture a counter herself. 

 

Isabela dodged back away from Xolana’s blade. “I must say,” she grinned. “Zev has taught you well.”

 

Xolana smirked. “It was not just him who taught me, but I'm sure he'll appreciate the compliment when he hears it!” she twirled out of the way of an attack and went for a low feigned jab.

 

Isabela swung her leg back. “Hey, now,” she protested. “I like these boots,” she slashed at Xolana.

 

“She's gotten better,” Conrí commented. 

 

Leliana was watching appreciatively as well. “So she has.” While Leliana favored the bow, she was no slouch with daggers.

 

“Good thing I like them too... that corset, however...” Xolana smirked at her own insinuation that she’d prefer the stiff garment off and blocked the slash while trying to go for the corset knot.

 

Isabela blocked the attack with a predatory smile. “You naughty thing. You'll have plenty of opportunity to see me naked.” Xolana couldn't help but laugh as they kept sparring. “And anyway, I can't have my crew coming back and seeing me in all my glory. Men,” she scoffed dodging a low slash. “Once they see you naked with your ass in the air they think they don't have to take orders.”

 

Xolana tutted. “Oh well, I wouldn't want to put you at a disadvantage, then,” she stopped going for the corset though the pair continued to banter and tease. After a few minutes of banter, Isabela slashed a bit too fast for Xolana to parry and sliced open her cheek. Xolana jerked back and hissed slightly at the pain, but she didn't realize at first how deep the cut was and wanted to keep sparring. “Huh, suppose I shouldn't let myself get so distracted.” The mage was still smirking with exhilaration, though she was obviously starting to fatigue as well. The adrenaline was dulling the pain of the gash in her cheek, but Isabela saw how much blood she was losing and relaxed her stance.

 

“Indeed,” the Rivaini pirate agreed, looking slightly guilty. “Sorry about that,” she added, pointing to Xolana’s wound.

 

Conrí, meanwhile, had pushed off the side rail and was making his way over to Xolana. “Let me see,” he said evenly.

 

Xolana looked confused. “Why is everyone fretting? It's only a scratch...” she brought her hand up to her cheek to check and was stunned when she realize how much blood her palm was coming away with. “... oh,” she sheathed her weapons by the time Conrí reached her.

 

Conrí gently gripped her chin, turning Xolana’s face to examine the cut, either not noticing or ignoring Xolana’s light flush. He pulled a simple elfroot potion from a pouch on his belt, along with a spare elfroot leaf. “This is gonna sting a bit,” he warned, giving her a moment to prepare before pouring a small amount of the potion on the cut. More of the potion went on the leaf, which he hold out to Xolana. “Here. Press this to the cut. It'll help with the bleeding and keep out infection.”

 

Xolana cringed only slightly and mouthed a thank you to Conrí before turning back to Isabela. “Sorry, I should have paid better attention. I realize you were holding back but... thank you. That was a great spar and I think I learned a lot.”

 

“What can I say? I'm a giver,” Isabela smiled. “Well, since we have yet more time to pass by, how about a drink?”

 

“I don't see why not,” Xolana shrugged. “Though that is a hobby I will not try to equal or even best you in.” she added with a snicker.

 

“A wise decision,” Isabela popped open a bottle of whiskey and grabbed four goblets. “I am sometimes amazed when I wake up some mornings.”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow and glanced at Conrí, wondering if he will take up the unspoken challenge. She wasn’t disappointed.

 

“No offense, Isabela,” Conrí grunted. “But you're not dealing with just some backwater moron when it comes to whiskey.”

 

“Ooh, is that so?” Isabela smirked. “Why not put your money where your mouth is?”

 

Xolana sent a mischievous grin over to Leliana. “Now this will be interesting.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Leliana sighed. “Not to be a wet blanket, but is this a good idea?”

 

Xolana chuckled. “It'll be fine, don't you worry.”

 

“Five sovereigns?” Conrí asked, taking a goblet. 

 

“Confident aren't we? Very well. Five it is,” Isabela grinned, pouring the pungent amber liquid into everyone’s goblet.

 

Conrí sniffed the drink and grimaced. “Anders don't know their arse from a hole in the ground when it comes to whiskey,” he snorted but tossed it back.

 

“Don't overdo it now, commander,” Xolana chuckled while still reassuring Leliana. A group of familiar voices came from the docks as Isabela refilled her own and Conrí’s goblets.

 

“Ah, here she is,” said Zevran. “The Siren's Call.”

 

“Heh,” Alistair chuckled. “Never been on a pirate ship before.”

 

“Don't fall overboard, Alistair,” Erin snarked. “I'm not fishing you out.”

 

Xolana saw the group arriving and waved them over. “Everyone, you're missing a show!”

 

“Oh by the Maker what now?” Tristan groaned, eyeing very warily Xolana’s disheveled post-fighting appearance, the elf root bandage she still holding to her cheek, her eager, mischievous grin and Leliana's expression of despair.

 

“Has Isabela challenged our illustrious commander to a drinking game?” Zevran asked, snickering.

 

“I take it you aren't surprised,” Leliana groaned.

 

“Not in the least,” Zevran cackled.

 

Xolana was eyeing both ‘combatants’ as they swilled their second goblet. “He's doing well so far...”

 

“...and what in Andraste's name have you managed to get yourself into again!?” Tristan pointed accusingly at Xolana cheek.

 

Xolana rolled her eyes. “Calm down it's really not that bad...” she grimaced. “But, hey do me a favor check if it's stopped bleeding?” she carefully peeled the elfroot leaf away a bit.

 

Wynne sighed. “Let's see... well, I’m glad my lessons in first aid have paid off,” she waved her hand, healed the cut.

 

“See? Good as new! Thank you, Wynne,” Xolana tried for an innocent smile.

 

“Yeah, not buying it,” Tristan snorted.

 

“Nor I,” Wynne added.

 

“That was my fault,” Isabela admitted, refilling her goblet once again. “I got a little too excited.”

 

Blair, having caught a good eyeful of the cut, looked at Zevran. “A little too excited indeed.”

 

Xolana turned to the Antivan assassin and asked very quietly. “So... you convinced her, then?”

 

“Did you have any doubt?” Zevran smirked.

 

“I will admit I wasn't convinced she'd go for it.”

 

“Do not let the serious demeanor fool you,” Zevran advised. “She is... quite adventurous in the bed.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “I am sure. I shall take your word for it for now and look forward to seeing for myself.”

 

“Just to whet your appetite,” Zevran grinned lecherously. “She is marvelously flexible as well.”

 

“Oh Zev, now you're teasing me,” Xolana licked her lips.

 

“Oh, Maker, Xolana,” Tristan groaned. “I know that face. What for the love of anything good left in this world are you planning?”

 

“Ah, so I see Zev's silver tongue hasn't changed,” Isabela chuckled, setting down her goblet. “I think we shall have to put the challenge off for now...”  


“Hm,” Conrí grimaced, hoping for a different liquor. “Right. For now.”

 

“Well, shall I show you my cabins?” Isabela gestured to the oaken double doors that led to her quarters.

 

“Oh, I don't know, I'm quite tired after that sparring match...” Xolana sighed, though already standing up with a smirk.

 

“What? What are they doing? Going where?” Alistair asked, confused. He received an exasperated look from Tristan and shut up with a silent ‘oh.’

  
“Zev, you sure about this?” Blair asked, looking nervous.

 

“Trust me my dear,” Zevran nibbled her ear, making her blush. “This will be quite entertaining.”

 

“Come on Blair, Zev, what are you waiting for?” Xolana winked, then turned around to follow Isabela into her cabin.

 

“Urgh,” Serena groaned. “I need a drink to deal with this.”

 

“Hey, you're in luck,” Garik grinned. “Gorim had a bottle of Highever whiskey.”

 

When Serena had run off, she had run into her old first, Gorim Saelac. They’d talked for a while and when Serena had to leave, Gorim had handed her a letter from Endrin and the Shield of Aeducan, completely restored. She’d left her old targe and now carried the ancient shield proudly across her back.

 

Serena raised her eyebrows. “You paid for it?”

 

“Well, partially,” Garik snickered. “I traded a few gems I’d… acquired. And I still had a few crowns left over from when the boss paid us.”

 

Serena was silent for a moment, then nodded, picking up a pair of goblets Isabela had left behind. “Crack it open then.”

 

Garik grinned. “As you wish, Princess.”

 

* * *

 

By the next morning, Isabela’s men had located the house Leliana pointed them towards. It was occupied. And guarded. It seemed Marjolaine was a creature of habit after all.Rain had been falling since late the previous evening, which kept many indoors. 

 

And from seeing the group converging on a single location.

  
The approach to the house had been easier than they’d feared; a pair of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries on guard outside the door whom Leliana and Tira had dropped from a distance, each falling with an arrow in the eye. Sten and Alistair had quickly dragged the bodies out of sight and Leliana had slipped to within reach of the door, ostensibly to check for traps. Conrí had kept a close eye on her, because he’d seen the raw fear in Leliana’s eyes, the terror warring with determination. She wanted to go in, to confront the one who’d torn her life to shreds and left Leliana to pay for her crimes, but at the same time, she was afraid. Afraid she wouldn’t have the courage to face her past. The look in Leliana’s eyes was so much like a frightened rabbit about to bolt that Conrí had to do something; he barely managed to place a supportive hand on her shoulders as she made to move towards the house to check; for a moment, it looked as if she wanted to fall into his arms and do nothing but remain, but she pulled away. Still, Conrí kept a close eye on her, and more than once, he felt himself stepping forward when it looked as if she were about to bolt in the opposite direction, only to have one of the others stop him and realize she was merely checking to see if she’d missed anything.

 

When Leliana rejoined them, reporting there was no sign of any traps, magical or otherwise, waiting for them, Conrí could only come to one conclusion.

 

Marjolaine had been expecting them to come.

 

“She’s waiting for us,” Leliana muttered, her voice choked with fear. “She has to know, or at least suspected her men wouldn’t be coming back. She’ll have prepared Maker-only-knows what for us in there...!”

 

“If she wants to hurt you, she’ll have to go through me along everyone else here,” Conrí promised, but Leliana shook her head despairingly.

 

“Marjolaine’s good at maiming all in her path. She knows a good many ways to cause pain, and so few of them require physical touch. Conrí, please be careful. I will never forgive myself if she harms you because of me, and she will try to harm us all, be certain of it...”

 

“Well, she can try, and we’ll see just how well her ways compare against cold steel,” Conrí replied calmly, fingering the hilt of his claymore at his belt as he raised a plated foot and slammed his boot into the door, smashing it open.

 

The room that lay before them was an embodiment of the decadence of Orlais that was what most Fereldan veterans of the occupation held in contempt. The furniture was elaborate and finely decorated to the point of being ridiculous, the artwork - tapestries and paintings - lining the walls, all appearing to be depictions of some of Orlais’s greatest military victories. All, Conrí noticed, aggrandized the exploits and prowess of the chevaliers in an extremely unsubtle manner. Even the lamps were made from glass in a garish variety of colors throwing a rainbow of light around the wall. Clouds of strong-smelling incense emerged from an elaborate brass incense burner in a corner, projecting a sickly cloud; Koun shook his head and sneezed at the assault on his sense of smell, while the humans wrinkled their noses in disgust at the sickly sweet scent. Conrí shook his head, despising the scent.

 

Two more rooms lay to either side of the chamber in which they stood, but both appeared to be locked. The only occupant of the main room looked up as the door slammed open, her face splitting into a wide smile as she saw who was at the front of the group.

 

“Leliana! Oh, so lovely to see you again!”

 

Conrí scrutinized the woman sat in the luxurious arm chair by the fire, sipping idly from a glass of white wine with an almost bored expression, looking at the group as if their intrusion was little more than a minor annoyance, rather than a threat. She was a striking figure, somewhere between Leliana and Eleanor Cousland in age; late thirties, early forties at a guess. Her figure, covered by a dress of crimson velvet that clung to her frame, was not quite voluptuous, but it was clear this was a woman who’d spent more time in recent years sending others to do her work, rather than attend to the task herself; she had the look of someone who had a few too many of the indulgences nobility allowed. Her brunette hair fell almost to her shoulders, glossy and lush without a trace of grey, but it was her eyes that made Conrí stay on guard; cold, brown orbs, quickly taking in everyone who’d entered the chamber, assessing what threat they might pose, how best to deal with them, how and when to strike. They were in a spider’s web now; Conrí did not lower his guard and he could only hope the others didn’t either. If what Leliana said was true, then appearances were extremely deceptive as far as Marjolaine was concerned.

 

“Spare me the pleasantries,” Leliana snarled. “I know you’re-”

 

“Oh, you must excuse the shabby accommodations,” Marjolaine commented with a dismissive wave of a hand, airily cutting across her former protégé’s outburst as if Leliana hadn’t even spoken. “I try to be a good host, but you see what I have to work with,” she said with a shudder, the picture of Orlesian disdain at perceived Ferelden barbarity. “This country smells like wet dog! Even now, it is everywhere, in my hair, my clothes… Urgh!” she griped with a haughty shiver of contempt.

 

Koun growled angrily at this, and Marjolaine’s lip curled at the sight of the mabari. “Yes, I’m referring to you, you mangy, flea-infested brute! You should be locked in a zoo, not wandering about a parlor! Just look at you, dripping mud and who knows what on my carpets...!”

 

“Enough! We’re not here to banter about whose homeland is the better!” Conrí angrily interjected. “Why are you sending assassins after Leliana now, after all this time?”

 

Marjolaine turned her attention to him for the first time, an eyebrow raised inquisitively. “So business-like, your companion. And not a little handsome too; I can see why you left the Chantry in such a hurry,” Marjolaine commented, rising from her chair elegantly and circling Conrí like a cat around a trapped mouse, raising a hand as if to touch Conrí’s face with a smirk; Conrí batted away the probing fingers with a gauntleted hand, his eyes icy.

 

“I wouldn’t have thought him to your taste, but I suppose after two years locked away in that stifling Chantry, you take what you can get. Tell me, my dear, are these Fereldans so enamored of their dogs that they rut with women in the same manner as their hounds?”

 

“I don’t have to tell you anything of that sort,” Leliana snapped, only to flush as she realized her mistake.

 

“My, my, someone has a soft spot for the Warden! I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; you were always too soft and sentimental for your own good; one of your few failings, I’m sad to say. Trying to help a poor young noble who’s lost everything, interfering in matters that weren’t your concern to begin with… nothing ever changes with you, does it?”

 

Leliana flushed, looking away, but when she turned back there was steel in her gaze. “I was trying to help you, to protect you from harm because I, because I- I LOVED YOU! And how did you repay me? You framed me, had me caught and tortured! I thought that in Ferelden, I’d be free of you, but it seems I’m not. What happened between us to make you hate me so?” she demanded. “Why do you want me dead so badly?”

 

“Dead?” Marjolaine repeated, looking affronted by the accusation. “Nonsense, my Leliana. I know you, just as I know what you’re capable of. Four, five men, you can dispatch easily. They were sent to give you cause to come to me, and see? Here you are.”

 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe a word that comes out of that mouth of yours,” Erin drawled dryly, even though her expression was nothing short of murderous. Chancing a look at his twin, Conrí saw Erin glaring at her with a look of disgust; he could tell his sister felt as much fury towards this woman as he did.

 

“You are so transparent,” Leliana snapped, her voice quavering a little, and Conrí flicked a worried glance at her; any sign of weakness would only encourage Marjolaine to press her advantage. “Why are you in Ferelden? And no riddles this time, I want the truth!”

 

The mask of civility fell away from Marjolaine’s face, a rather ugly scowl taking its place. “Fine,” she spat coldly “No more games. In truth, I’m here because you have knowledge you can use against me. For my own safety, I can’t just leave you be. What?” she snapped at Leliana’s incredulous expression. “Did you think I did not know where you were, that I would not watch my Leliana? I knew where you were all the time, and at first, I admit I was confused. ‘What is she up to?’ I wondered. ‘The quiet life; the peasant clothes, hair ragged and messy like a boy; no, this is not her.’ You were planning something, I told myself, so I watched. But no letters were sent, no messages; you barely spoke to anyone. Clever, Leliana, very clever! You almost had me fooled… but then along comes a dashing, handsome Grey Warden, and you can’t get out of the Chantry fast enough! What was I supposed to think? What conclusions should I draw? You tell me! Or why don’t you?” she snapped suddenly, turning her attention to Conrí with an accusing finger. “What did she promise you to get you to agree to kill me? Gold? Political favor? Alliance with Orlais? Or did she just spread her legs and offer you the one thing my sources tell me you cannot resist? Oh I know a great deal about you, boy!” she sneered at the incredulous look on Conrí’s face. “Will you still want your handsome, chivalrous Grey Warden when I tell you how many elven serving girls and tavern wenches he’s laid with?” she sneered at Leliana. “You think you mean anything to him? ‘Tis my understanding that you’ll be nothing more than a notch on a bedpost that’s been worn for quite some time...”

 

“Could you be anymore revolting?” Alistair snapped at her, his face contorted in repulsed anger.

 

“Parshaara, vashedan!” Sten nodded in agreement. “Draw a blade if you intend to confront us, else hold your tongue. Only weak and craven foes use insults and taunts to undermine their enemies, since they do not have the skill to face them honestly.”

 

“Be silent!” Marjolaine snapped, glaring at both of them with a look of aristocratic disdain that two of the lower orders would dare to address her. “When I want the opinion or the ‘indiscretion’ of a rebel prince or a Tal-Vashoth thug, I will ask for it!” Both men fingered the hilts of their weapons, all but begging for an excuse to kill this wretch where she stood, but Leliana was talking again, and they held their place.

 

“You think I left because of you?” Leliana snapped incredulity in her gaze. “You think I still have some plan for revenge? You are insane, paranoid!”

 

“Neither my past nor Leliana’s is of any concern to either of us now!” Conrí added in agreement. “She is assisting the war effort against the Blight, nothing more, nothing less.” Marjolaine’s eyebrows rose

 

“Ha-ha-ha! My, my, Leliana! You’ve really done your work well, my sweet! But let me give you some advice, boy; if I were you, I would trust nothing she says; not a word! She will use you; you may look at her and see a friend, an innocent girl, trusting and kind, warm. I assure you, it’s an act; it’s the very way I trained her to be. Trust me, boy; she’ll do anything, say anything to get what she wants, just like a true bard.”

 

“I am not you, Marjolaine! I left Orlais because I did not want to become you, didn’t want to become the monster that life turned you into!”

 

That same cackle came again, nothing short of deranged. “Oh, but you are me,” Marjolaine crooned viciously. “You can’t escape it. No one will ever know you like I did, because we are one and the same!”

 

“Oh enough!” Conrí snarled, accompanied by a rasp of metal as he pulled his claymore from its scabbard and leveled it at Marjolaine’s throat, the blade’s tip bobbing an inch from slicing open her jugular. For a second he saw fear in those cold, calculating brown orbs and reveled in it; he wanted the bitch to feel the same fear for him Leliana felt for her. The only thing holding him back from driving the sword through the bitch’s throat was the fact he’d never harmed an unarmed opponent in his life that hadn’t tried to harm him first, hammered home since he first took up a blade as a child, but this one was sorely testing his principles. 

 

The bard clearly didn’t realize her old student was not the woman she’d once known, once held complete sway over, hadn’t seen the woman Conrí knew; the defender of the weak and the desperate, encouraging all with her to do what was right, rather than what was easy, to save the mages, to free the werewolves of their curse, save Connor, and most of all, the penitent, desiring nothing more than absolution for her sins. Marjolaine might have known one side of Leliana, but Conrí knew another, and he would be damned before he let this pampered, deluded strumpet destroy that light by tormenting the girl with her past.

 

With the bardmaster at blade-point, Conrí stepped forward until their faces were all but touching, and hissed to her in a cold, soft voice, emphasizing every point to her.

 

“Say what you like, spout whatever lies and half-truths you want, given a choice between taking her word and yours about her past, I’ll take hers any day. I believe her when she says she has turned away from that dark path, and I trust Leliana, no matter what you say.” Leliana looked round at him, surprised by his vehement denunciation of Marjolaine’s rant and his defense of her, his unshakeable, unyielding belief in the goodness within her, her gratitude cutting through her grief-stricken pain.

 

“Thank you,” she replied demurely, a thankful look in those soft green eyes, wet now with tears of joy. Clearly she’d been terrified that the dark secrets of her past spilling from Marjolaine’s lips would turn him against her, and for a second, Conrí felt a little offended that she hadn’t had more faith in his judgment of character, but he kept silent. She needed him strong and supportive, and that was what he would be.

 

Back to herself, Leliana turned back to Marjolaine, and there was nothing in those bright green eyes but hate.

 

“You will not threaten me or my friends ever again, Marjolaine. I want you out of my life. Forever.”

 

“You know full well she’ll hound you, and us, for as long as she lives. I will not allow that.”

 

“Oh, please. What do you have anymore besides that blade, boy?” Marjolaine snapped. “Is Rendon Howe not in control of your family’s ancestral lands?”

 

Conrí’s eyes widened. “What do you know of it?

 

Leliana looked stricken for a moment, as though, in spite of everything her former mentor had done to her, caused her to suffer, she couldn’t bring herself to harm her former lover. But then it passed; a reluctant nod from the girl told Conrí she agreed that Marjolaine needed to face justice, not just for herself, but for the countless others the bardmaster’s machinations had brought to ruin.

 

“You’ve caused too much pain for too many, Marjolaine. It ends here.”

 

He’d expected the veneer of indifference to fall away; for the bardmaster’s resolve to crumble at the sight of the armed group advancing to take her life, for her arrogance to be cowed by the knowledge she was seconds from death, to fall to her knees, beg for her life, offer anything in exchange for mercy. So when Marjolaine simply threw back her head and cackled in a deranged, mocking fashion, Conrí knew something was dreadfully wrong.

 

“And you think you can kill me, just like that?” she sneered with a click of her fingers. “I made you, Leliana. I can destroy you just as easily!”

 

“And how do you plan to harm us?” Sten snapped. “Not all of us will quail before that viper’s tongue, and you do not have the skill or the ability to kill us all.”

 

“Now who said I would be the one to do anything?” Marjolaine smiled, a cruel leer devoid of any mirth, before it devolved into a venomous scowl as the bardmaster screeched two words in a language Conrí didn’t know: “Vinek kathas!”

 

Conrí risked a look over his shoulder: the others looked completely nonplussed by this declaration, save one, his violet eyes going wide with shock...

 

“To arms!” Sten roared, his axe already halfway out of its scabbard as the doors on either side of them were smashed open from the inside and from each side, two Tal-Vashoth mercenaries apiece emerged, armed and ready for battle; two in heavy plate armor, the others wearing black robes adorned with what looked suspiciously like chains and a large, wrought iron collar placed around their necks, the upper portion of their faces hidden behind crudely wrought gold masks. At a guess, Conrí would have called them mages, though he hadn’t been aware the Qunari kept such, given their disdain for magic.

 

“Daemon-spawn!” Sten spat at these creatures. “Tal-Vashoth Saarebas! I will exterminate the threat you pose to us all outside your karataam!”

 

With a bellowed war cry, Conrí slammed the pommel of his sword into Marjolaine’s gut; the Orlesian woman doubled over, winded, and for good measure, smashed the pommel again into her jaw, feeling a great satisfaction as a wad of white and red flew out of her mouth, teeth having parted company with her jaw; he would not, as he suspected she intended, have her use the distraction to affect an escape. Before she could get up, Conrí placed a foot on her chest to pin her down and turned his attention to the fight.

 

“How many more Fiends of Seheron must I slay?” Sten bellowed as he blocked the maul of one. Leliana threw a handful of dust, mixed with crushed glass into the eyeholes of one Tal-Vashoth’s helm, a tactic she’d used before; before the brute could recover, she drove both her daggers through the eyeholes of the helmet, and the Kossith toppled like a rag doll. Sten grappled with the other long enough for Koun to charge across the floor and sink his fangs into the back of the warrior’s right knee bring his mace down on the warrior’s knee; the Kossith yelled in pain. Distracted by the mabari’s teeth trying to tear out the back of its knee, the Tal-Vashoth mercenary forgot to pay attention to Sten until the Beresaad had driven the bit of his axe through the gap between gorget and helm in a spray of blood. Sten gave a jubilant cry of victory, and then was pitched across the room as a fist sized stone conjured by one of the Tal-Vashoth mages hit him in the side of the head; he crashed to the foot of a wall, somewhat dazed.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud crack of glass being smashed from above. All looked up, and Marjolaine screamed in a childish, girly manner, all pretence of aristocratic haughtiness gone at the sight of a gargantuan spider smashing its way in through the skylight over their heads. As the spider fell from above, it twisted and writhed in midair, landing on top of one of the Saarebas, venomous fangs stabbing through the robes and into the grey-bronze flesh. The mage spasmed in its death throes, green-tinged blood trickling down its front as the toxins in the spider’s venom took effect; the second Saarebas directed its attention towards the giant spider, magical lightning curdling in its fingertips, but Alistair’s templar training came to work; a burst of blue energy and the lightning dissipated. Before the Kossith mage could amass its power for another attack, the spider shot a web of silky strands from its rear, entrapping the mage in thick strands that tightened the harder it struggled to get free. Motioning for Koun to keep Marjolaine pinned, Conrí strode over in two steps and ran the Saarebas through without hesitation.

 

With the danger gone, the companions relaxed, though never taking one eye off Marjolaine. The spider contorted and shifted, light emitting from its body, limbs shrinking and fading away, its bulky form becoming slender and lithe, until once again a decidedly under-clothed Morrigan was standing before them. To the great surprise of all, the witch tossed a small round object into Marjolaine’s lap; the bardmaster gave a scream of revulsion as she, and the others, saw it was the severed head of a man, his final expression one of utmost terror.

 

“Your men are dead. The Arl and his thugs aren’t coming to save you,” Morrigan replied coldly, idly picking something out of her teeth before riffling through Marjolaine’s wardrobes for something to cover herself with.

 

“You’re lying!” she spat at the witch, a look of horrified desperation in her gaze, but another dark shape leapt into the room through the skylight, landing on their feet lightly with a flourish. Zevran gave a soft laugh and nodded to Morrigan. “The beautiful creepy-crawly tells the truth. Your errand boys didn’t make it halfway to the Arl of Denerim’s estate. One’s lying with his throat cut on a rubbish heap, and the other,” he said with a laugh, nodding at the severed head in the Orlesian woman’s lap “Well, I don’t think there was a piece of him left big enough to identify as human after dear Morrigan was finished with him!”

 

Howe? Conrí wondered. Had this been a trap for a different prey all along? Had the attack against Leliana been a ploy to draw another quarry into the open? Raising his sword to Marjolaine’s neck, pressing hard enough to draw a thin line of blood, he demanded imperiously, “That your plan, then? Lure us all here, hand us over to Loghain and Howe and hope the regent lets an Orlesian claim the bounty on our heads?” he sneered. The berserker raging in the dark corners of his mind whispered for him to stir that particular hornet’s nest, to draw Howe in if it provided the chance to kill him, but Conrí put it aside. There were too many unknowns, too many variables to spring that trap while they were still standing in it.

 

“Only Howe,” The bardmaster replied calmly, showing no disappointment or anger that her plan to trap them had failed, wiping the blood from her wrecked jaw line with an indifferent shrug. “The regent’s... prejudice... towards my homeland is well known, even across the border; the Arl hoped that my assistance in helping to apprehend the Grey Wardens to fight the Blight would soften his stance on the issue. Plus, there were numerous... personal benefits to such an alliance; Howe’s influence and presence in the Ferelden court would have been a useful thing to have when I returned home.”

 

“If you actually thought Howe would keep his word in any kind of bargain with you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Conrí sneered disparagingly, but there was no fear in Marjolaine’s eyes, merely a sly avarice and cunning as she looked at Conrí as though she were seeing him in a new light. It was a look that repulsed him.

 

“Perhaps. But as your precious Chantry girl will tell you, when the Maker closes a door, he opens a window, does he not? My current deal seems to be over, so why not make a new one? Think boy, I’m only of limited use to you as a corpse. Alive, so many possibilities open up...”

 

“Don’t trust her; I’ve seen this before. She’s just trying to save her own skin. Don’t believe a word she tells you,” Leliana’s voice wavered, almost pleading, and when Conrí turned to her, she lowered her eyes, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

 

“I know that,” the Warden said softly, reaching out to try and lift Leliana’s chin, to look her in the eye and offer her a smile of reassurance, but the girl shied away. “I know,” he repeated, feeling a little disheartened by her reaction.

 

“Let me go, and I will go straight back to Val Royeaux. I can assure you we will never meet again, and even better for you, I could bring word of your plight to the Grey Wardens of Orlais; my sources tell me they and their Chevalier escorts still wait on the border,” Marjolaine insisted. “All they know of what’s going on is Loghain’s edicts. Let me live and I assure you, they will hear the truth of matters.”

 

“Because you’re all about truth, of course?” Xolana sneered dryly, her face looking as merciless as Conrí’s.

 

“I can be truthful when it is of advantage to me,” the bardmaster replied with what was clearly meant to be an innocent expression. “Leliana’s escape was most… inconvenient, and left me in an awkward position. While killing her would grant me a temporary satisfaction, it will hardly restore what I lost in terms of prestige and influence back in the Empress’s court when the scandal of her betrayal and escape became common knowledge. Gaining the gratitude and trust of the true power in Ferelden would have been of benefit in that regard, but if that’s not to be, then I will settle for the favor of the Grey Wardens.”

 

“You really are that shameless?” The blood mage shook her head in disgust, turning to her Commander. “I know that they say that the Grey Wardens take their allies where they can get them, but -”

 

“Do they?” Conrí kept his expression blank. “Funny thing is I don’t recall Duncan ever saying that, do you? And I don’t recall ever reading such a thing in a Warden’s handbook, do you? Unless you found something and neglected to tell me”

 

Xolana’s lips twitched slightly as if she were trying not to snigger before settling back to a suitably serious mien. “Now that you mention it, I can’t remember where I heard that, myself. And we can’t go around making up rules, can we? I mean, they’d have people believe we’re murderers and traitors; we can’t add ‘liars’ to that list, surely not?”

 

“Oh, come on!” Marjolaine protested. “I’m offering to bring you help against the regent and the Blight, what more do you want? I’ll even swear never to harm you and Leliana again, I can’t say fairer than that,” she insisted, desperately looking for some sign of acquiescence, of agreement in Conrí’s eyes, only to realize that it was futile, that she might as well be trying to bargain with a glacier trying to bargain for mercy with those cold, blue flecks of ice looking down at her.

 

All she saw in those cold blue eyes was her own reflection.

 

“No deal,” Conrí snarled. “Now you pay for all the pain you’ve wrought,” he intoned, pulling back the sword for a decapitating blow, but stopped before he could make the strike, lowering his weapon, the blade coming to hang limply at his side.

 

“What’s the matter, boy?” the Orlesian sneered, taking his hesitation for weakness. “Don’t have the courage to take an unarmed woman’s life?”

 

Conrí coldly spat at her. “Your life is not mine to take”, taking a step back, reversing the sword and holding it out to the one who could. “It’s hers.”

 

“No,” Leliana pleaded. “She lured you here with the intent to turn you to your enemies; you’ve as much right to...”

 

“You’re the only one she’s wronged personally,” Conrí insisted, holding out the sword to her, taking one of her hands and placing the hilt in her grasp. “You’re the only one who has the right to decide what sort of justice she deserves...”  
  
“That is not entirely true,” said Zevran, coming from a side room. He was unusually serious which immediately put Conrí on guard. The elf came over silently and handed Conrí a scroll. 

 

Conrí unfurled it and read it. As his eyes skated down the text, they grew colder and colder. When he was finished, he handed it to Erin.

 

Erin read quickly. “’They’ve been in possession of Highever too long... Need a way of implicating them… Half now, half when I… have control of the Highever treasury...’ You bitch… You were the one who helped Howe accuse our family of treason…”

 

“It was merely business,” Marjolaine snickered. “It was not difficult. Cailan might have been a family friend but even he could not protect your family from accusations of treason. While it would cause chaos in Fereldan, the trade potential opened up by the just the lack of Highever lumber and spirits… well, a little blood is worth that amount of coin to many nobles. Do not take it personally, if Howe had not contacted me, I’m sure someone would have taken the fall in this barbaric country. Howe just provided a target. I must say, though, it was entertaining to take down such a prominent family.” She cackled. 

 

“That’s enough!” Conrí snapped. Marjolaine turned back to the pair, blanching at how the twins, rather than being horrified as she had been counting on, had expressions of pure rage on their faces. 

 

“You were stupid enough to confess…” Erin hissed.

 

“And even more stupid to boast…” Conrí continued.

 

“Everything you’ve said is fuel on your funeral pyre,” Erin growled fingering her blade.

 

“So, I think we’ll begin…” Conrí snarled.

 

“By cutting out your tongue!” they both barked at the same time.

 

“Look out!” Alistair suddenly blurted, as Marjolaine surged to her feet, hand darting into a fold in her dress, emerging with a glass bottle in her hand, hurling it into their midst. The group scattered as the bottle shattered, its acidic contents splashing everywhere, and Marjolaine darted towards the gap in their ranks, towards the door out and freedom. Conrí and the others made to stop her, but Marjolaine had a head start...

 

There was a dull twang, and suddenly Marjolaine stopped, her outstretched hand inches from the door knob, staring down at the silver arrowhead jutting from her chest, the others staring at the shaft and fletching protruding from between her shoulder blades. The bardmaster fell to her knees, clutching at the arrowhead as blood poured down her chest and her back, staining her dress an even darker red, while Conrí looked round and saw Leliana, lowering a longbow calmly.

 

“I decided I couldn’t let her get away. I was foolish… you’re right, let her go and she will make us rue such mercy...I couldn’t let her go, not after all she’d...”

 

Even now, dying, on her knees in her own blood, Marjolaine was still as vicious and spiteful as ever. Conrí tried to put himself in front from Leliana, not wanting her to have to listen to any vindictive rant her old mentor might throw at her, but the serpent still had venom, even in death, and only one target in mind to vent it on.

 

“So I was right. You would try to kill me when you saw the chance, just as I would you. I was right, Leliana; we’re the same,” she spat hatefully with her last breath.

 

“We’re not the same! WE’RE NOT THE SAME; WE’LL NEVER BE THE SAME!” Leliana screamed in defiance and seized the Cousland family sword from Erin’s hand; the Warden was so shocked he made no move to stop her. The silverite blade flashed out, and Marjolaine’s head rolled away, along with the last embers of her spiteful, self-serving life, her final expression one of malevolent disdain. Leliana spat on the corpse once, but then something faded from her eyes, and she collapsed beside the body, tears spilling down her cheeks as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d done. She reached out a hand to pull the arrowhead free, and her hands came away stained with blood, her leather gauntlets and her bare fingers painted scarlet in the stuff. Leliana looked revolted, though at what, Conrí did not know. He would hate to think that after all the bitch had done, all the evil she had wrought, a lone act of which would be enough to want her dead, Leliana might well regret what she’d just done so much it might cause her to start hating herself, even though, as far as Conrí was concerned, she’d just done the right thing.

 

First things first, he told himself; it was too much to hope someone hadn’t heard the raised voices and the sounds of fighting and gone to raise the alarm.

 

“Come on! I doubt very much these walls are soundproof, and I’d like to be long gone before the city guard comes to investigate!” The others nodded and raced out the door back towards the river, save Zevran, who lingered behind for a moment to loot anything of value from the house and the bodies, coming away with several sovereigns worth of coin, a suit of plate armor that looked like it might have belonged to a chevalier, and a longbow of exquisite make and design, and Leliana, who remained by Marjolaine’s side. When Zevran tried to rummage through the folds of her dress, Leliana shot the elf such a vicious glare that he desisted.

 

“Come on, we have to move,” Conrí insisted as he seized Leliana by her shoulder and dragged her towards the door, but she wouldn’t budge. 

 

“It’s over. She’s dead… she’s dead because of me...”

 

“And we’ll soon follow if we’re not gone before. Leliana, you did what you thought was right. And I think it’s a little too late for regrets...” he said with a nod towards Marjolaine’s severed head, lying beside the door with its accusatory look. Leliana didn’t reply, but this time, when Conrí pulled her to her feet, she didn’t resist and allowed herself to be dragged out into the Market District; the rain had stopped, though thankfully the square was still mercifully empty.

 

The second they were out of the house, Morrigan and Xolana both shot a fireball into the building, setting it ablaze; hopefully a sufficient distraction for them to escape back to the docks by river while the watch were busy putting out the blaze. As Leliana fell into step with the others, chancing a last look back at Marjolaine’s lair and now her funeral pyre, Conrí was sure he heard a last regretful sigh.

 


	29. Into the Dragon's Maw

 

“Zevran,” Conrí called as the group walked up the gangplank. “A word, if you don’t mind.”

 

The ‘former’ Crow turned to the tall warrior, motioning for Blair to go back to Isabela’s quarters without him. When the pair were the only ones remaining on deck, Zevran spoke, “You called?”

 

“You could have kept the letter secret,” Conrí started bluntly. Zevran internally cringed. Warriors… he mentally sighed. “Yet rather than using it as incentive or blackmail, you gave it up. Why?”

 

“I do owe you and the Wardens a blood debt,” Zevran shrugged. “If this information gets me closer to paying it off, all the better.”

 

“And the real reason?”

 

Zevran sighed vocally this time. “Despite my rather… disreputable entrance to this merry band, you have shown me no discourtesy or any measure of hostility. In short, you have been good to me. And you had no cause to be. A small measure of thanks, I suppose.”

 

Conrí contemplated Zevran’s words for a long moment before nodding. “I see. Well, I do owe you thanks for giving us the scroll. From now on Zevran Arainai, you have my trust,” Conrí extended his hand.

 

Zevran’s eyebrows shot up. Trust was not something the young man in front of him gave lightly. After a moment, Zevran stuck out his own hand and shook Conrí’s. “I will endeavor to prove worthy of it, my friend.”

 

Conrí smiled, but it had a predatory gleam to it. “Ah, I have forgotten something in the excitement of the last several days,” he said. “It is relatively minor but, formalities, I’m sure you understand.” Conrí tightened his grip on Zevran’s hand and yanked the elf closer. “Break Blair’s heart or hurt any of those travelling with me… And I will dip you head first into a vat of molten gold and leave you as a statue outside the Arl of Denerim’s palace. Am I understood?”

 

Zevran’s eyes widened a fraction. “Perfectly, Commander.”

 

“Good,” Conrí released Zevran. “Once you’ve had sufficient time to rest, I need you to go to Genitivi’s home in the market District. Keep a low profile and be sure to meet with Erin and Alistair. Apparently he has someone to meet there as well.” With that, Conrí strode toward the stairs leading below decks. 

 

Despite the gravity of the situation, Zevran couldn’t help but quip, “That was a rather good threat. Did you spend much time on it?”

 

“Nope,” Conrí chuckled. “Inspiration of the moment.”

 

“It was impressive. Do you mind if I use it?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

* * *

 

Mid-afternoon the next day, Alistair and Erin returned to the ship with Zevran in tow. 

 

“Well that was... not what I expected. To put it lightly,” said Alistair, disappointment and regret at having wasted his time on such folly clear in his voice. “This is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? That shrew is my sister? I can’t believe it.”

 

“I’m sorry it turned out like this,” Erin mumbled.

“Yes... I’m sorry, too,” said Alistair. “I... I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do? I... I feel like a complete idiot.” “It was clearly weighing heavily on his mind that he had been nurturing an idealistic fantasy of a happy, welcoming family waiting for him for so long, only to have that dream destroyed by the very person it was centered upon 

 

His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Erin put a hand on his shoulder. “You are not an idiot, Alistair,” she said. “You have been told how much of an inconvenience and burden you were, and treated as such all your life. It’s not idiotic to want acceptance, or a family to belong to. The trouble is that there are so many people in this world who, like that bitch, see you as something to be used for their benefit; they don’t care about you, they’re just out for themselves. You try too hard to be who you are told to be, you neglect your own desires and allow others to make choices for you, important ones, ones that affect you. You should start to look out for yourself, and not let anyone take advantage of you anymore. If you don’t look out for yourself, who will?”

 

Maybe I was wrong; perhaps I already have something similar to what I was looking for...  


“I take it your trip is finished?” said Conrí, emerging from the hold.

 

“Alistair found out he had a half-sister living in Denerim, so I agreed to help him seek her out. We found her, for all the good it did; fucking ingrate that she was,” Erin seethed. “I was just saying he needs to look out and stand up for himself a bit more, lest others try to manipulate him like that bitch.” 

 

Conrí nodded sagely in agreement, his expression sympathetic but firm. “Sad to say, my friend, but I have to agree; in this life, almost everybody’s out for themselves. I learned that lesson too late in the form of Howe. I don’t doubt it’s a sore spot but at least you’ve learned it before you were too attached to this woman; you could have been really hurt. All I can say is take this lesson and learn from it,” Conrí frowned. “Who was this woman anyway?”

 

“The daughter of a maid from Redcliffe Maric had an affair with, apparently,” Erin snorted.

 

Conrí’s eyes hardened. “You were told your mother was a maid?”

 

“Eamon told me when he gave me my mother’s amulet originally,” Alistair pulled the small metal pendent from his armor.

 

Conrí approached. “Let me see that.” Alistair hesitated a moment then handed the amulet to Conrí. The tall redhead examined the pendent. “She was born and raised in Redcliffe, you said?”

 

“Yes?” Alistair cocked an eyebrow.

 

“Then this was not hers,” Conrí grunted. “Or, more likely, Eamon told you of the wrong woman. Goldanna was not your sister.”

 

“What?!” Alistair sputtered. “How would you know?!”

 

“Because Duncan knew your mother,” Conrí told him. “Old friends, he said. He told me just in case a situation like this came up and he wasn’t around. Your mother was no maid in Redcliffe. Likely, a woman died in childbirth and was used as a convenient out to explain your heritage.”

 

“Why?” Alistair demanded. “Why would everyone lie about who my mother was?”

 

“Because she was a Grey Warden,” Conrí snapped. Alistair deflated, his jaw hanging open. “One of the Wardens who Maric accompanied into the Deep Roads, which led him to repeal Arland’s expulsion of the order. This amulet is given only to exceptional enchanters of the Wardens in Orlais.”

 

“… My mother was a mage?” Alistair asked, gob smacked.

 

“Even more, an Orlesian mage,” Conrí handed the amulet back to Alistair. “Eamon has been lying to you since they day you could walk.” He turned to Zevran. “Speaking of…”

 

“I found Brother Genitivi’s home. The good brother was not there, but his assistant was… or at least… the man calling himself Genitivi’s assistant,” Zevran announced. “He seemed uncomfortable. When I dug deeper… he attacked, crying about Andraste choosing him and other such gibberish. He was an imposter, as I discovered the body of Genitivi’s true assistant in a back room. I found some of Genitivi’s research. He came to believe the Urn was housed in Haven, a small town in the Frostbacks.”

 

“Haven?” Conrí asked, taking the tome Zevran offered. “Never heard of it.”

 

“Nor have I,” Zevran admitted. “He did leave a map, so we may find it with little difficulty.”

 

“Good work,” Conrí praised, flipping through the book. “We’ll stay here until the heat from the Market dies down.”

 

* * *

 

Conrí removed the last of his armor, depositing it on the small stand he’d conned from Bodahn after they’d slipped out of the city late in the evening. He’d gotten into the habit of just tossing his armor wherever when the day was over and was trying to break it. The stand, he thought, should help. With his armor and weapons in their proper place, he pulled on his worn nightshirt and headed back outside, hoping dinner was done.

 

His hopes were dashed, however, when he saw Erin and Wynne still slaving over the pot of stew. Conrí sighed. It could be a while longer before dinner was ready. His eyes found Leliana near her tent, the bard sharpening her daggers with a rather faraway look in her crystal blue eyes. He walked over and sat down next to her. “That’s a good way to lose a finger, you know,” he said teasingly. She blinked rapidly for a moment before turning to him, a slight blush staining her cheeks.

 

“Oh, hello…” she said quietly, putting aside her dagger and whetstone. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?”

 

“You look a little distracted,” Conrí told her, humor leaving his voice.

 

“It’s… it’s nothing, I’m fine,” Leliana tried to assure him. “I’m just thinking.”

 

“You’re less talkative than usual,” Conrí pointed out.  
  
“I can’t get what happened out of my head,” Leliana mumbled. “I’d been in Lothering for years and she still thought I was plotting against her. She didn’t trust me. Maybe she never did. She loved me when she could use me and control me, and now that she can’t… she wants me dead. It… it hurts to realize that I never really knew her.”

 

 “Maybe you did and didn’t want to admit it.”

 

“I knew she was ruthless, but I didn’t know how far she could go. She was self-serving, cruel… she used people, then discarded them, but that’s how she survived in the life she led. W-what if she’s right? What if we’re the same? I… I should have just stayed in the Chantry.”

  
Conrí took her hand gently. “She would have attacked you there eventually.”

 

“Maybe, but that’s not the point,” she said with a sigh as she stood up and began pacing. “I was a different person there. I forgot my life as a bard while I was in the cloister. I felt safe. I didn’t have to watch my back all the time. That’s what made Marjolaine the person she is, don’t you see? It ruined her; it will ruin me too. It’s already happened. When we killed her I… I enjoyed it. Seeing her dead gave me satisfaction.”

 

“No more than it will me when Howe lies dead at my feet,” Conrí growled as he stood as well. “She did you a great injustice.”

 

“But that is no reason to rejoice over her death,” Leliana argued softly. Last thing she needed was the others thinking she was on the verge of a breakdown. “That is what she would do. I don’t want that. What we’re doing… what we’ve done; hunting men down, killing them… part of me loves it. It invigorates me and this scares me. I… I feel myself slipping.”

 

“Leliana, you and I are very different on most things of substance. And many things of little substance,” he smirked, remembering his conversation with her about shoes. “But one thing we have in common is the thrill of the hunt. It’s not the killing you enjoy. It’s the hunt, pushing yourself to your limits and breaking them. Why do you think I enjoy sparring so much?”

 

“I admit that I took great pleasure in the intrigue back in Orlais. It was dangerous and chaotic… and exciting, but it destroyed my life. I thought the Chantry showed me anotherpath. I thought I was done with this life… am I wrong?”

 

“Even in the Chantry, you knew you didn’t belong there,” Conrí told her.

 

“There is this thought that floats through my mind constantly… that I lie when I say the Chantry gave me peace when in truth it… it bored me.” Conrí smiled at her admission. “Here, with you… knowing the freedom of the road and the uncertainty of tomorrow… I feel alive again.”

 

“Then stop running scared from it,” Conrí said firmly.

 

“I would like to be alone, for now. I have many things to consider. Thank you for listening to me.”

 

“Anytime, Leliana.”

 

By now dinner was finished and Wynne was spooning stew into bowls for everyone. After dinner, everyone turned in, except Conrí and Leliana who had drawn first watch.

 

Once everyone was safely in their beds, Leliana spoke up. “The stars are out.”

 

Conrí followed her gaze, looking to the sky for the first time in months for a reason beyond checking the weather. “For once, a clear night,” he sighed.

 

“It comforts me to know that the stars will remain untouched by the Blight; that whatever happens down here, they will shine eternally, their light undimmed. There is a story about that cluster over there,” Leliana pointed to a bunch of stars to the east. “Do you know it? Alindra and her soldier?”

 

Conrí shook his head. “Can’t say I have heard it.”

 

“A long time ago,” Leliana began her tale, “There lived a fair maiden called Alindra. She had many suitors, but spurned them all, for she did not love them. One day, Alindra was sitting by her window in her father’s castle, singing and dreaming, when her lovely voice caught the attention of a young soldier. Entranced by her song, the soldier drew near to Alindra’s window. As their eyes met, he fell in love with her, and she with him. When Alindra told her father about the man he had chosen, he was furious, for Alindra was high-born, but her love nothing more than a common soldier. To keep them apart he had Alindra imprisoned in the highest tower of his castle and sent her soldier to the wars. Alas, not a month had passed before news of the soldier’s death reached Alindra. Alone in her tower, Alindra wept for her love and beseeched the gods to deliver her from this cruel world. So earnest was her plea that the gods themselves were moved. They gathered Alindra into their arms and lifted her high into the heavens, where she became a star. The gods also raised up the soul of Alindra’s soldier love and there he dwells, across the horizon from her,” Leliana pointed to a constellation far to the west of Alindra’s. “The band of stars between them is a river Alindra’s tears, cried for her lost love. They say that when Alindra has cried enough, she will be able to cross the river to be reunited with her soldier.”

 

Conrí’s eyes had barely left Leliana’s face since her story began but he said, “I’ll never look at the stars the same way again.”  
  
“This story is one of my favorites,” Leliana told the Warden. “A tale of a love so great and so enduring that it defies death, and moves the gods to action. Sometimes I ask myself, does such a love exist? Can it exist?”

 

“It is rare to find a love as strong,” Conrí rumbled. “But if we lose faith in such things, what have we to live for?”

 

“I… never expected you to say that,” Leliana admitted. “It is… a pleasant surprise.”

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow. “Why is it a surprise?”

 

“I have to say there is a certain severity to you. Finding a person behind that all is nice. Maybe you should let your softer side show more often. Sometimes following your heart, not your head, leads you to remarkable places.” The pair said nothing for a while before the bard broke the silence again. “I enjoy the nights at camp. The night always seems more peaceful to me. Safer.”

 

Conrí chuckle. “I know what you mean.”

 

“I feel the night grants us a reprieve from the troubles of the day. Silly isn’t it? The Darkspawn never sleep, and they lurk in the shadows.”

 

“It isn’t silly to look for moments to lay down your burdens.”

 

“I enjoy these nights when we stand guard together, talking to pass the time in those small hours… well, I talk and you listen, mostly. Sometimes I succumb and fall asleep, and wake to find you still watchful and I know you’re watching out for me.”

  
“You never have to feel afraid with me around,” Conrí assured her with a smile.

 

“W-what I’m trying to say is… is that I trust you. I’m comfortable around you. I know you’ll be there when I need you,” Leliana’s tone got more and more nervous as she continued. “You are our leader, and my friend and… sometimes I think that m-maybe we could be more than that…” Leliana shook her head and her voice took a self-depreciating edge. “Maker… look at me, stumbling over my words like some ill-educated peasant girl. Some bard I am…”

 

Conrí chuckled. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

 

“I’m not embarrassed!” Leliana protested, though her flush belied her fib. “I’m just… flushed because… of the… heat.”

 

Conrí leaned in slightly and said quietly, “For a while, I’ve wanted us to be more than just friends, Leli.”

 

“Really?” she squeaked. “N-no one told me. You… you felt the same way and didn’t do me the courtesy of informing? Y-you made me say all those things! Why couldn’t you have said them first? Oh, you… oh how very awkward…”

 

“That’s me,” Conrí chuckled again, his grey-blue eyes shining with mischief. “I’m a terrible person.”

 

“Oh, why am I being a baby about this? I must be a sight, spilling my guts.”

 

Conrí leaned in again, but didn’t stop until his lips had brushed against Leliana’s. She greeted him in earnest, kissing him eagerly. It had been more than two years since she had felt the lips of another on hers and Conrí had skill, not bumbling through the gesture as most men she’d been with had. When he moved to deepen the kiss, rather than rebuff him, Leliana straddled Conrí’s lap, tangling her hands in his hair. She enjoyed the slightly rough texture of his lengthening hair. It may have been long enough to braid once again, but those were thoughts for another time.   
  
After a while, Leliana pulled back, her face flushed a lovely pink as she panted from lack of air. “Well…” she cleared her throat. “That settles it then.”

 

The pair stayed like that, talking well into the night. They only stopped when they heard someone clearing their throat not far away. They looked up to see Erin and Serena standing outside their tents, both with smug smirks and hands on their hips. “Well, well,” Erin snickered. “Not making a very good impression on your subordinates, Commander.”

 

“And with the Chantry girl, no less,” Serena added. “So shameless.”

 

Leliana flushed a deep rose and hid her face in Conrí’s shoulder. Conrí himself didn’t color in the slightest. He just raised an eyebrow. “And you’re one to talk, dear sister. Did I not walk in on you with your hand in Tira’s skirt?” Erin blushed faintly while Serena chuckled. “And don’t even get me started on your sexual tension, Aeducan.” Serena scowled. “Be sure to wake Garik and Sten for last watch. We head for Soldier’s Peak early and then it’s on to Haven.”

 

“Why Soldier’s Peak?” Erin asked.

 

“We need information on the Joining,” Conrí said, letting Leliana slip off his lap. “The sooner we can induct Xolana, the safer she’ll be.”

 

* * *

 

“So, this thing, you and he have going…” Alistair muttered early the next afternoon. He looked towards the front of the group where Conrí was pouring over the map to Haven, working out how to reach the small settlement from Soldier’s Peak. Xolana was next to him, making observations on weather as summer was quickly fading to fall. “Doesn’t that violate your vows?”

 

“What?” Leliana squawked. “What kind of question is that to just blurt out? What do we ‘have going’?”

 

“Yes, I’m that blind,” Alistair snarked. “I so totally did not see you ogling each other before.”

 

“He was not ogling me,” Leliana protested before her expression became intrigued. “Was he? Was he really ogling me?”

 

“Now that you say it, I'm not sure,” Alistair mock contemplated. “Maybe he wasn't ogling you. I don't know...” he grinned devilishly. “I could always ask him...”

 

Leliana’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “You can't do that! Could you? You couldn't do that...”

 

Alistair snorted. “I could. But I won't. Next thing you'll have me pulling his hair and passing him love letters.”

 

“I... just mind your own business. How inappropriate!” Leliana blushed and moved towards the front of the group, trying to ignore Alistair’s snickering. 

 

“Are you sure Avernus knows about the Joining?” Xolana asked Conrí as Leliana joined them.

 

“He was the senior mage of the Wardens,” Conrí nodded. “If anyone besides Sophia knew, it would be him. After all, he’d need to help prepare the potion.”

 

“What goes into this potion anyway?”

 

Conrí sighed. “Only thing I know of for certain is that it requires lyrium and usually several mages if the Order was lacking. Which it was at Ostagar and the Templar’s didn’t help by limiting the number of mages to a grand total of ten. The other main ingredient is darkspawn blood, as you know.”

 

“Right,” Xolana swallowed, paling a bit as she mulled over the thought of drinking that tainted swill. “So… will I Join if Avernus knows what to do?”

 

“That’s up to you,” Conrí grunted. “While ideally we’d have as many Wardens on hand as possible, it would be a bad idea to do it before you’re ready.”

 

Xolana forced a laugh. “Not that different from sex then.”

 

Conrí rolled his eyes. “If you want to equate the two…”

 

Xolana nodded. “Come on, we better hurry if we want to get there before nightfall.”

 

As the day wore on, Xolana fell back towards the middle of the group. Wynne approached her during a quiet moment. “I noticed you seem to be rather.... free with your affections.”

 

“I've been cooped up without much opportunity to express myself for a long time,” Xolana shrugged unapologetically. “A woman has needs.”

 

“A fair point I suppose,” Wynne allowed grudgingly. “But it seems you make it your mission to make as many people blush as you can. You and Zevran both.”

 

“Can you blame me?” Xolana giggled. “Oh it's such a fun pastime... you just know you've got them thinking, and yet they try so hard to deny their wants, their desires, their urges... Why, I wonder? Why do you do that? Why refuse yourself the carnal pleasures? If you desire a man or a woman or otherwise, why not try?”

 

“I couldn't have said it better myself, my dear,” Zevran chuckled.

 

Xolana smirked at Zevran. “Glad we're on the same scroll,” she said before glancing back at Wynne and smiling gleefully. “Oooh, what's this? Tell me, who is it you're thinking of?” Xolana nearly squealed, delighting in the blush Wynne was slowly forming. “Go on, some muscly general? A beautiful young broad? A young spritely boy?”

 

“What?! No! I was...” Wynne sighed. “I was thinking back... on a long time ago.”

 

“Ohhhh? Story time, methinks!” Xolana rubbed her hands together excitedly. 

 

“It was before you were born, more than likely,” Wynne admitted. “I had... an affair with a man in the tower.”

 

Xolana gasped. “Now we're talking!” she turned to Zevran. “Why did no good-looking men or women come for me in the tower?”

 

“Well, there was that young, if neurotic Templar Cullen. I seem to recall him staring rather intently at your backside.”

 

Xolana crinkled her nose. “Yes, him I knew about. But puh-LEAAAAASE... I wish to hear your story!” she added to Wynne.

 

“He was a templar, if you can believe it,” the ageing mage sighed.

 

“A templar...” Xolana grew thoughtful but nodded, still wanting to hear the story.

 

“As I said, it was a long time ago. The templar and I had... well I suppose you could call it a relationship, on and off for a number of years.”

 

“So you regularly came to the tower to be with him...?” Xolana asked.

 

“He was stationed there,” Wynne explained. “And this was before I could leave freely. I was still just a regular enchanter at the time. So we saw each other quite frequently.”

 

“So let me get this straight. You, a mage, decided to engage in a relationship with a Templar who was charged with keeping us locked in a tower of doom and to kill us if we tried to run or were suspected of blood magic use?”

 

“I would not expect another to understand,” Wynne shook her head. “It was dangerous, yes, for both of us, but we were careful... mostly.”

 

“...mostly?” Xolana swallowed.

 

“Yes... I ended up pregnant,” Wynne admitted. “And the Knight Commander at the time found out who the father was and sent him away. I believe he is in the Free Marches now.”

 

Xolana’s gut sank in dread. “And... the baby..?”

 

“Born whole and healthy,” Wynne assured her. “But he was taken from me as well. Last I heard he was in the White Spire in Orlais. I've contemplated visiting Rhys for some time, but I never found the opportunity.”

 

Xolana relaxed a bit, nightmares of forced abortions going through her head. “Well... perhaps it is safer for the child if you don't.”

 

“Oh, he is full grown now,” Wynne explained. “Older than Conrí in fact. Correct me if I am wrong but he is the eldest of you?”

 

“Technically,” Erin grudgingly admitted. “He was born a few minutes before me.”

 

“Oh! I didn't realize you were twins,” Wynne chuckled abashedly. “I’m sorry, dear.”

 

“If the situation were different, he’d likely have teased me about it by now.”

 

“Pardon me, Wynne,” Leliana interjected gently. “I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but did you say your son was named Rhys?”

 

“Yes, I did,” Wynne nodded as she turned to the bard. “Why do you ask?”

 

“I met a man when I was visiting the White Spire a few years ago. He looked a lot like you and went by Rhys.”

 

“Could this be your son, Wynne?” Xolana asked.

 

“I suppose it's possible...” Wynne acknowledged. “But what are the odds?”

 

“Not many of the mages in the Spire had Fereldan names,” Leliana added. “And I only knew of one Rhys, anyway.”

 

“So he became a mage, too?” Xolana asked. “I suppose that was to be expected. Wynne... perhaps, when the war is over, you could go find you son?”

 

“It is something to think about. And perhaps I have put it off for too long,” Wynne turned her attention to the west, no doubt thinking of her child.

 

Xolana noticed this, becoming truly honest and supportive for a change. “I think that would be wonderful. You deserve to see your son. I'm sure he has turned into a fine man.”

 

“Rather handsome as well,” Leliana admitted with a warm smile.

 

“Ooh, really?” Xolana teased.

 

“Xolana Amell,  NO ,” Wynne said firmly, making the younger mage burst out in giggles.

 

* * *

 

 “Ah, Wardens, so wonderful to see you again!” the unctuous voice came from the old man sitting behind his work table in a fine, if old and worn chair. Conrí was quickly getting irritated of the old mage waffling on in a manner that was clearly meant to be pleasant and ingratiating, but instead came off as obsequious.

 

“You may dispense with the hollow pleasantries, Avernus,” Conrí cut across the old Warden’s prattling with a raised hand. “This is not a social call. We need information.”

 

“What about?” Avernus’s face contorted into a confused expression.

 

“The Joining. What it entails, what is required to perform it and how we can get such,” Conrí replied. “Before long, we will be entering Orzammar and I suspect that our time there will likely require a sojourn into the Deep Roads. Xolana here was recruited into the Grey Wardens months ago, but she has yet to take the Joining, and if I am to enter the Deep Roads in the midst of a Blight, I want as many Grey Wardens on hand as possible. So tell me, how do we go about the Joining?”

 

Avernus was silent for a few moments as he pulled a hefty tome down from a nearby bookshelf, opening the book as he sank back into his chair and flicking through the pages until he found the page he was after, motioning for the other Wardens to be seated. As Conrí, Alistair and Xolana lowered themselves into the chairs available, Avernus began to talk in a curt, scholarly manner.

 

“The Joining is, as you know, the rite whereby we acquire the taint the darkspawn possess. It is our great advantage in the war against those beasts; to know where they are, what they think. The ritual itself requires three ingredients; firstly, a mixture of fresh darkspawn blood and lyrium ore in a liquid state...”

 

“Why lyrium?” Xolana interjected.

 

“As you know, girl, in its rawest form, lyrium can be a potent toxin, just as lethal as darkspawn blood, if not more so. Even the processed form the dwarves manufacture can have side effects; amnesia, loss of equilibrium, loss of one or more senses, and even complete mental psychosis in some truly advanced cases. However, it is these toxic attributes that makes lyrium of use to us; the addition of lyrium goes a long way to nullifying many of the venomous properties of darkspawn blood. This was first postulated by the earliest Grey Wardens during the First Blight, and my own research confirms it. The darkspawn blood provides the connection to the taint, allowing us to sense darkspawn, but the lyrium allows us to make us of it. Without the lyrium to temper its potency, the taint would reduce all who took the Joining to little more than mindless ghouls, possessing the taint but no more able to make use of it than a Blight wolf.”

 

“Can the lyrium completely nullify the taint’s poisonous side-effects?” Conrí asked, intrigued despite himself. “I’ve read your earlier research, on how it is the taint that causes the shortened lifespan, among other things. Is there any way these side-effects could be removed completely?”

 

“Not at present,” Avernus replied, disappointment in his blue eyes. “I had been experimenting by introducing ever greater quantities of lyrium to darkspawn blood, but so far I haven’t been able to completely remove the toxins that shorten our lifespan or trigger the ravenous hunger that we suffer, among other side-effects. I will keep experimenting, of course, but it may take years, decades even, before my research comes to fruition.”

 

“Then you will make that your priority while we are gone,” Conrí commanded, receiving a nod and more obsequious reassurances from Avernus.

 

“And the third ingredient of the Joining?” Alistair cut in, trying to bring the conversation back to its original topic.

 

“Now that is the rarest and most valuable of all the Joining’s components,” Avernus said with an enigmatic smile, one that did not sit well with Conrí.

 

“Enough with the riddles, Avernus,” Conrí snapped. “I do not have the time or inclination to play games with you. What is it?”

 

“A single drop of blood taken from the veins of an archdemon,” was the curt reply.

 

Conrí felt his jaw drop, and judging by the incredulous expressions on the others’ faces, he wasn’t the only one to be caught completely off guard by this revelation. He’d suspected, given the secrecy and mysteriousness that had surrounded his own Joining, that it comprised something so powerful, so enigmatic and so dangerous that the Grey Wardens were afraid to say it except in the company of the most venerable of their number, but never in his wildest imagination could he have suspected something like that.

 

“How in the Maker’s name did the Wardens get their hands on that?”

 

“After the Battle of Ayseleigh, the Wardens bled Andoral’s carcass of every drop of blood the Dragon of Slaves had left in his veins. Approximately fifty vials of the Archdemon’s blood were sent out, given to the possession of every Warden Commander, to ensure the Grey Wardens are capable of inducting new members. The vast majority, however, like the blood recovered from Dumat, Zazikel and Toth, were removed and placed in a secure vault, protected by the most powerful wards the Circle of Magi could construct, and guarded at all times by a hundred Wardens, in the deepest recesses of Weisshaupt Fortress. Should the supply in any nation in Thedas dwindle, the Warden Commander would send word to Weisshaupt and the First Warden would remove more blood from the vault, to be dispatched where it was needed.”

 

“Do you have some of this archdemon blood to hand?” Xolana asked, sounding eager to be done with it. Conrí didn’t know whether the girl was excited at the chance of what she had been chosen for being so close at hand, or whether she simply wished to be done with the matter after so long waiting. “Is it possible to perform the Joining now?” Before Conrí could decide whether it was enthusiasm or resignation, however, Avernus shook his head.

 

“Alas no; if I did, you would already be a Warden by now, my dear girl, and there’d be no need for the conversation that follows now. Sadly, Soldier’s Peak’s cache of blood ran dry many years before the rebellion; Sophia was, shall we say, less than frugal when it came to the Joining. I remember her once saying she’d conscript the entire population of Denerim if it would give her the edge over Arland. Naturally, after the ‘events’ here that resulted in our Order’s exile from Ferelden, no more blood was sent from Weisshaupt. After King Maric repealed Arland’s decree, I learned that more had been dispatched from the fortress to the Wardens’ new compound in Denerim...”

 

“May as well be in Val Royeaux for all the good it does us,” Alistair muttered darkly. “The compound’s at the palace, which means Loghain will have it more tightly guarded than a crab’s arse.”

 

“So how are we supposed to perform the Joining now?” Conrí demanded angrily, annoyed at their plans being thwarted. Avernus spread his hands helplessly, before getting to his feet, pulling bottles and glass phials off shelves around him.

 

“I do not know, but I can make sure that if, by some miracle, you do manage to acquire Archdemon blood in your travels, you will be ready to undertake the ritual,” Avernus replied as he poured a good measure of darkspawn blood, reddish black and stinking of decay, into a glass bottle. He uncorked a second phial, this one full of a shimmering blue fluid, and poured it in with the blood, the mixture taking on the deep purple coloration of a bruise.

 

“It is ready,” Avernus said, holding out the vial to Conrí. “The glass is enchanted, so it won’t break if you drop or misplace it, and its contents will stay fresh and ready for use. For the same effects of the potion I gave you, Cousland, add a measure of your own blood. With it, the young lady will have much more of a chance of survival.” Conrí nodded by way of thanks and got to his feet to leave, Xolana and Alistair doing likewise, but Avernus’s call stopped them as Conrí made to open the door.

 

“And if you’ll take my advice for what it’s worth, be careful in the depths. Even locked away as I am here, I still hear word of what’s happening across Ferelden. Despite what the fools at court believe, the lack of attacks in recent months does not mean this threat is over. The darkspawn may be crude and animalistic beings, but I assure you, the one leading them is not. If the Archdemon has not made its presence known to the surface, that can only be because it is biding its time, and no recent attacks mean that it has kept the bulk of its army with it. The Archdemon is neither stupid nor impulsive; it is like any predator, simply awaiting the perfect time to strike. Mark my words, the second it scents weakness, an opportunity given to it by these fool nobles who throw their armies and their lives away tearing this nation apart, the darkspawn will descend upon us like wolves on a wounded beast. Do not linger overlong in Orzammar, for the enemies of all life will come at us again before long, and unless you have the armies the treaties grant you ready, no one of either side of this civil war will survive the onslaught that is to come.”

 

* * *

 

“I admit, there have only been a small number of times I have questioned Conrí’s decisions, but...” Leliana trailed off as she and Xolana made their way towards the barracks. “Are you sure it was wise to leave that Avernus alive?”

 

“Well... I don't know,” Xolana shook her head. “Being a blood mage myself I feel like I'm in no position to judge, though... intuitively, I am also concerned about the choice.”

 

Leliana sighed. “I worry sometimes. He is almost too pragmatic at times... though he did give Avernus those orders...”

 

“But will he truly follow them..?” Xolana asked. “Is he trustworthy enough..? I do not know the answer...”

 

“I admit... for all his faults, Avernus seemed truly affected by Conrí’s words. Then again, it is hard not to be, no?”

 

“I agree,” Xolana nodded. “But someone as far depraved as Avernus appeared to be... I think it was obvious that he still had some morality, but how deeply sunken into the blood magic he truly was... I could not tell you. I have always been very careful about how I used it so... I can't empathize. Not completely.”

 

“You are stronger than you give yourself credit for my friend,” Leliana smiled. “You dance a finer line than most and it hasn't gotten the better of you.”

 

“Perhaps you give me too much credit...” Xolana sighed. “I hope we must never find out.”

 

“I must admit, I do worry about you,” Leliana acknowledged. “Blood magic is... seductive from what I understand.”  


Xolana smirked. “You worry about me?”

 

“Of course. Why wouldn't I?” Leliana asked.

 

“Oh, no reason,” Xolana assured her with a happy smile. “But do not worry, I am fine and will remain so... I will not let myself be controlled by my own magic.”

 

Leliana smiled as well. “That is good to here. Maybe that will get Wynne off your back, no?” she chuckled.

 

Xolana laughed as well. “It might, though I would not bet on it. On the other hand... Perhaps I would not mind if you worried just a little anyway,” Xolana’s happy smile became a smirk.

 

“Ooh, you would like that wouldn't you?” Leliana giggled.

 

Xolana chuckled. “Who could be so silly as to mind a beautiful woman worrying about them?”  


“Beautiful is it?” Leliana chuckled skeptically. “You need to get your eyes checked, my friend. I couldn't be more plain.”

 

“Leliana, really, now it's you who does not give herself enough credit.”

 

“If you say so, Xolana,” Leliana sighed.

 

Xolana stepped closer. “What will it take for me to help you see how beautiful you are?” A slight leer was developing.

 

Leliana pondered for a moment with a smirk. “Hm. Let me think...”

 

Xolana’s leer grew. “Hm...?”

 

“Not to interrupt such an interesting conversation,” Tira’s voice came from the doorway. “But dinner is ready.”

 

Xolana pulled away from Leliana, though only a tiny bit. “I swear you do this on purpose, Tira,” grumbled Xolana, her eyes still firmly on Leliana.

 

Tira raised eyebrow with a smirk. “Maaaybe. But seriously, if you're hungry, you'd better hurry before Alistair, Erin and Conrí eat everything.”

 

Leliana sighed. “She has a point,” she said, her stomach grumbling.

 

Xolana sighed too and mumbled to herself. “Why do I even try...” she started pulling away from Leliana slowly.

 

“I have the worst timing don't I?” Tira chuckled.

 

Xolana shot her a glare. “Just you wait and see… I will get you back.”

 

“Uh huh. Just try it, sparkle fingers.”

 

Xolana ignored Tira. “So Leliana... think about it for me, will you?” her smirk returned as they turn to head to the mess hall.

 

“Ooh, I interrupted something good, didn't I?” Tira giggled. Xolana was ignoring her with such purposeful vehemence it almost hurt. “She's ignoring me now. How mean.” 

 

“Well, you are quite nosy,” Leliana pointed out.

 

“Five minutes is all I'm asking, Tira...” Xolana groaned, trying hard not to get angry.

 

Tira gave a defeated sigh. “Very well. Don't blame me if those three rabid wolves eat everything,” she said, turning to head back to the main hall.

 

Xolana rolled her eyes. “Do not miss dinner on my account. I do not mind if you want to go. I was just... well, hoping for a response, though.” Tira waved over her shoulder.

 

“A Grey Warden willing to miss dinner. Color me astounded,” Leliana giggled.

 

Xolana chuckled. “Not Joined yet, remember? Besides, I can always get my own dinner later if they really leave nothing for me... and I find this conversation both more stimulating and important right now.”

 

“Is that so? I am flattered, my friend,” Leliana chuckled.

 

Xolana let out a pleased sigh. “I suppose letting yourself be flattered is a start. Yet I maintain... you give yourself too little credit.”

 

“Vanity... is not a quality I wish to have anymore,” Leliana told the mage, growing serious.

 

“I am not speaking of vanity, but self deprecation is also not healthy,” Xolana pointed out.

 

“You misunderstand. I do not think of myself as beautiful, as I once did. If I allow myself to believe that, I... may slip into some of my other earlier habits,” Leliana shifted uncomfortably. While she was being honest with herself, there was still parts of her past self she didn’t want to indulge. 

 

“Are you so scared of the person you once were?” Xolana asked. “So terrified of the shadow of the past? Do you truly believe you could sink back into your own history?”

 

“Xolana... you would probably be ashamed to know the person I once was...” 

 

“You do not know this...” Xolana mumbled. “You are just assuming it to be so. I am a blood mage... not many things are considered worse than that. I sincerely believe I understand your fear but... I also believe it to be unfounded.”

 

Leliana sighed and looked to shift the conversation. “I never did tell you about my friends while I was working under Marjolaine, did I?”

 

“I suppose you did not,” Xolana admitted.

 

“They weren't bards themselves, one being a mage and the other a warrior, but they came with me on many of my jobs.”

 

“You do not have to tell me if you feel very uncomfortable...” Xolana assured the bard. “But I appreciate the trust you place in me if you do.”

 

Leliana smiled. “It is no discomfort. Merely... nostalgia and regret. The mage was an elf named Sketch. A more nervous fellow I have never met. I always did find it odd that he would agree to accompany a bard. Though I’d wager his hatred for the Circle rivals yours.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “If that is truly so I should like to meet him.”

 

“Unfortunately I haven't seen him since I left for Fereldan. I do hope he is alright...” Leliana grew pensive.

 

“Apologies... but I'm sure he is. Mages tend to have good cards up their sleeves if you know what I mean,” Xolana smiled.

 

“He always did have a good head on his shoulders,” Leliana nodded. “The other was Tug, a dwarven warrior. He confused me more if I'm honest. He only ever said the view couldn't be better if he worked for someone else.”

 

“So... what was the matter with the time you spent with them? With you... with them?”

 

Leliana sighed. “Nothing. I enjoyed my time with them, working for Marjolaine. But... I was not the only one she betrayed...” Xolana waited in silence, not wanting to interrupt. “When I was captured... Tug and Sketch were taken as well... when I finally managed to free myself and found them... Tug was already dead. Sketch told me the guards killed him because he wouldn't stop talking, distracting them from cutting Sketch's hands off...”

 

“That... that is horrible,” Xolana gasped, horrified.

 

“As much as Tug teased him, Sketch was... not in the best shape when he died,” Leliana hung her head.

 

“I... I can imagine. Travelling together can do that to you...” Xolana’s mind turned fondly of their companions... even Alistair.

 

“We had help escaping the estate we were being held in and we weren't alone when we left. A man named Silas Corthwaite was being held for poaching and a Revered mother had slipped me a key to the cells. Along with this,” Leliana added,drawing her belt knife briefly.

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow. “Quite the token from a revered mother.”

 

“It turns out the Revered Mother, Dorothea, was seduced by Marjolaine as well. Marjolaine had been attempting to start a new war between Orlais and Fereldan. I do not know why. Perhaps a few nobles wished to reclaim what they see as a rebellious territory and hired her to make it happen. But Marjolaine had stolen documents that could make that war a reality. It seems she was still going to try until we confronted her.”

 

“You... weren't lying when you said there was more to it than we thought…"

 

“Yes... Dorothea is why I returned to the chantry after I dealt with Marjolaine's compatriot, a disgruntled Fereldan soldier named Commander Harwen Raleigh.”

 

“But Leliana...” Xolana started hesitantly. “I understand this was a painful past, but I still don't understand... why did you feel like you couldn't trust us with this information before...?”

  
“I was ashamed...” Leliana admitted. “If I had been quicker... maybe I could have saved Tug...”

 

“But how on earth was that your fault? How can you think that?” Xolana was baffled. As far as she could tell, Leliana had been in no place to help anyone at the time. 

 

“I believe the term is survivor’s guilt...” Leliana mumbled.

 

“Well I promise you... you don't need to feel that. At all,” Xolana assured her crush.

 

Leliana wiped her eyes as a few stray tears escaped. “I'm sorry,” she sniffed. “I came here to speak on friendly terms and end up spilling my guts...”

 

“Hey, hey, hey now. Calm now. Come here... it's ok,” Xolana pulled Leliana into a hug and stroked her hair.

 

Leliana accepted the hug, pushing away the remaining tears. “Thank you, my friend.” Xolana cringed slightly that she was being so insistently called friend, but ignored it for the moment and held the bard.

 

Leliana pulled back and kissed Xolana on the cheek. “Thank you again, Xolana. But I think we had better get back now. Conrí may well send Koun out looking for us. Last thing we need is another scolding from a mabari.”

 

“Leliana...” Xolana, gaining courage from the cheek kiss, gently grabbed Leliana by the wrist before she could turn away. When the bard looked at her quizzically, Xolana pulled her closer to herself and kissed Leliana properly.

Leliana froze, shocked at herself for the momentary thrill of enjoyment before pulling away. “Xolana...”

 

Xolana quickly realized this was probably not the smoothest move. “Leliana... I... I am sorry.”

 

“No, I’m sorry... I... I like you but...” Leliana trailed off.

 

“...Forgive me. I shouldn't have,” Xolana backed away. “You are right, let’s go back to camp.”

 

Conrí came into the clearing. “Is everything alright? I was starting to worry about you two.”

 

“Yes, sorry sir,” Xolana said formally. “We were just on our way to return,” she tore her eyes away from Leliana and started to head back to the main hall.

 

Conrí frowned and watched Xolana leave before turning back to Leliana with a quizzical expression. Leliana sighed and put a weary hand to her forehead. “I'll... explain later...”

 

* * *

 

Snow began to fall thick and heavy as the group neared where Haven was marked on Genitivi’s map. The group had broken out thick wool cloaks to fend against the biting mountain wind. “Keep moving!” Conrí barked. “Genitivi’s research says the tomb rest atop this peak!”

 

“Lovely!” Morrigan sneered. “We shall freeze to death digging for the bones of a madwoman…”

 

Those of Andrastian belief ignored the mage and her barbed tongue and continued up the mountain. But one of a different belief had something to say, though not to the witch. In fact, he shoved past the mage, disregarding her hiss of annoyance, and trudged towards the front where Conrí was leading the way. “An interesting strategy. Do you intend to continue going north until it becomes south and attack the Archdemon from the rear?”

 

“You think I’d be on this wretched mountain if it wasn’t necessary, Sten?” Conrí growled.

 

“Necessary. My mistake. It seemed to me that a flight of religious fancy had taken you, Warden,” Sten rumbled.

 

Conrí, having heard such complaints from the Qunari before, turned around fully, putting his back to the wind. “You can always leave, Sten,” he said, voice brimming with agitation before turning and continuing up the path. 

 

“I’m not leaving,” Sten snarled. “I’m taking command. Your cowardice will mislead us no more.”

 

Conrí stopped cold. The air around the group seemed to drop even further, even the wind died down, leaving a malevolent calm. “Cowardice?” Conrí asked, his voice dangerously quiet. He turned halfway to stare at the Qunari, his face half shrouded by his hood, but Sten still saw his pupil had dilated. Not in fear, but a towering rage. “I hope you do not expect me to step aside quietly.”

 

“Fight if you wish,” Sten growled. “It makes no difference.”

 

Conrí pulled off his cloak and tossed it aside before grabbing his sword. “Then face me, Qunari,” he sneered. 

 

Sten snorted and charged like an enraged bull. Conrí ducked the swing of his axe and drove the pommel of his sword into the armored gut of the Qunari, making him stumble slightly. The stumble didn’t keep Sten from evading Conrí’s counter swing, slipping his leg away from the honed edge of the Cousland’s Claymore. Sten swung again, this time getting the haft of his axe caught between the blade and quillon of Conrí’s sword. Conrí spun his sword so he could grip the blade and trap Sten’s axe. The two warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, glaring at each other, molten violet meeting piercing ice blue. 

 

Rather than rearing back to strike, Conrí thrust the curve of his skull into Sten’s face, using the thick bone to snap the Qunari’s nose and loosen a few teeth. Sten’s head snapped back, letting Conrí swivel his hips and toss the large man to the ground. Sten quickly got to one knee, seeing Conrí rearing back for the final strike. The Qunari acted quickly, swinging his axe to meet the claymore. The sound of splintering metal echoed through the still forest.   
  
Conrí stumbled, gob smacked as he saw the hilt and a few feet of metal in his hands and the rest of his blade scattered about. He reacted quick enough to cross his arms and block much of Sten’s next blow, but the bit still sliced his face, opening a gushing wound from his right eyebrow to his upper lip. He cried out in pain, his head jerking down. This gave Sten all the time he needed to knee him in the face and force Conrí back to his feet just in time to take the broadside of the axe to the chest, sending him flying.

 

Conrí collided with a pine tree and fell face first into the snow. The world spun as he looked up, seeing Sten shoulder his axe and turning to the group. “It is done,” said the Qunari. “I lead from here on.”

 

“No,” Conrí growled, pushing himself from the snow, a good bit of it painted crimson. Blood poured down his face, covering half of it and getting into his eye. “It’s not done… not while my heart still beats…”

 

“Conrí!” Erin cried, rushing to his side. Her brother forced himself to his feet, his right eye shut tight against the stinging blood coating his face and running down his neck and onto his breastplate. “Stop this! You have no weapon!”

 

“I will not let some hornless oxman screw this up now!” Conrí snarled. “It’s bad enough I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere looking for an artifact that might not even exist for a man I thoroughly detest! I’ve tolerated bitchy comments from a swamp witch, friendly fire from a bastard elf with a chip on his shoulder the size of Starkhaven, and the snide comments of some glorified scout from Seheron! I’ve had it! You want to lead so badly, you oversized bastard?! YOU’LL HAVE TO KILL ME! Because if you don’t, I am gonna beat the shit out of you with my own two hands! Unlike you, Qunari, I don’t break with my weapon!” Conrí raised his fists, showing he wasn’t bluffing. 

 

Sten cast aside his axe as he studied the wounded human. He had his right foot forward, giving him good balance and mobility. His left fist was tucked near his cheek, ready to defend. So they trained him in unarmed combat as well, Sten mused. Like before, Sten threw the first blow. Conrí ducked under the wide swing, aiming two quick left jabs into Sten’s exposed ribs. 

 

As they traded blows, Sten couldn’t help but be impressed with the human. Unlike his normal fighting style which chained together broad sweeping strikes, Conrí’s unarmed fighting was quick, nimble despite the massive armor he wore. Rather than blocking most blows, Conrí dodged, ducked and evaded them, usually delivering a painful counter. After not landing a single strike, Sten finally grew agitated and seized Conrí by the throat.

 

This mistake proved almost fatal. 

 

Conrí grabbed Sten’s wrist instinctually. To Sten shock, Conrí threw his legs up, dragging Sten to the ground. Before Sten could react, Conrí’s left leg snaked around the Qunari’s arm like a python while the right wrapped around his head. This left Sten’s neck between Conrí’s left shin and right calf. Before Sten could pull back, Conrí grabbed him by the back of the head, his fingers lacing and he began to pull Sten’s throat into his shin, using his right leg as extra leverage. 

 

Try as he might, Sten couldn’t break Conrí’s grip. His struggles began to grow slower and more feeble by the second as the blood flow and air was cut off. Conrí wrenched back, screaming in rage even as his own life blood poured from his wound, running into his hair and pooling in the snow. Eventually, Sten went completely limp. Conrí pushed the heavy body of the Qunari off him and stood quickly, ignoring the vertigo. When he was sure Sten wouldn’t be attacking anymore, he sat heavily, panting and attempting to wipe the blood from his eye. Wynne bustled over, intending to heal the wound, but Conrí waved her off with a curt, “Leave it,” and stood up. Leliana however, would not be swayed and began wiping the blood off his face with a damp rag.   
  
“Stubborn man…” she muttered as she pulled out some pulverized elfroot. Before Conrí could argue, Leliana cut him off. “It will keep out infection and let you keep your scar, you stupid bull headed idiot.” Conrí merely grumbled as Leliana smeared the paste on his cut.

 

Sten gradually regained consciousness as Wynne repaired what damage Conrí had done to his throat. “Torn vocal cords… nasty business,” Wynne muttered. “I know you usually refrain, but do not talk anymore than necessary for the next few days, Sten.”

 

The Qunari nodded and turned to Conrí. He’d been defeated. There was no denying this. He’d lost consciousness at the hands of a bas. No… he was no mere thing. Sten saw that now., though whether he was Basalit-an remained to be seen.

  
“Sten,” Conrí growled. “If you ever raise a weapon against me again, not only will I kill you, but I will find your sword and keep it as a trophy. Am I understood?” Sten nodded. “Good.” He picked up the hilt and part of the blade of his sword with a sigh. Besides his ring, the last tangible thing he owned from Highever was in pieces.  


As he contemplated what he would do with the broken weapon, the hilt slipped from his fingers. He turned to see Wynne levitating it and the pieces of the shattered blade. To his amazement, the fragments aligned in the shape of the completed sword and seemed to stick together. Wynne motioned for Conrí, who held out his sheath. The magically pieced together blade slid into its sheath. 

 

“It won’t be any good in battle, but it will hold until you can get it repaired,” Wynne explained. 

 

“You’re going to have to tell me how you did that later,” Conrí grunted, grabbing Sten’s axe and tossing an old maul to him. “For the moment… let’s hunt down this myth.”

 


	30. Ruined Temple and A Test of Faith

 

“Wretched fools…” Conrí  grunted, pulling the bit of his axe from the corpse of Revered Father Eirik. Haven proved even more unfriendly than he had anticipated. The entire village seemed to be part of some odd offshoot of the Chantry. “Odd” being a very generous term. “Great. A cult. I fucking love cults.”

 

Most of the cultists the group had come across lay dead, either here in the Chantry or along the slopes leading to it. What Conrí found even stranger was the amount of strength most of them had exhibited. Besides Eirik himself, none of them had been mages, so blood magic was unlikely, as was any martial talents that relied on magic such as Tristan and Xolana’s Arcane Warrior talents or even the Chantry’s Knight Enchanters. Conrí remembered the book Zevran mentioned finding in Genitivi’s home about dragon cults. Reavers, maybe? Conrí thought before shaking his head. Bah. It doesn’t matter. We aren’t here for my curiosity.

 

“Commander,” Zevran called from his place near a wall on the eastern side of the Chantry. “You may wish to look at this.”

 

Conrí shouldered his axe and made his way to the elf. He frowned when he saw the wall. The curved stones leading from the floor upward and arching back down resembled a doorway. The mortar was still fresh as well. 

 

“Clearly, there’s something behind this the villagers didn’t want us to find...” Zevran muttered when he realized he had no need to explain. “How to open it, I wonder...?”

 

“Out of my way, painted elf,” Shale intoned as the golem swung a fist with tremendous force into the stone archway. The crude mortar and stone collapsed, allowing entrance to a chamber beyond the barrier.

 

“Well, that’s one way I suppose,” Conrí agreed as he stepped inside, followed by the others into a small room, lined with bookcases that had the look of a study or library to it. On his back in the middle of the floor was a weary looking man of middle years who could only be Brother Genitivi.

 

“Who are you? Did they send you to finish it?” the scholar demanded. Zevran could see the man didn’t look all that good; his left leg below the knee was at an odd angle, and his face was a mass of bruises and cuts. His eyes, however, were still bright, alert and inquisitive; clearly, the zealots had broken his body, but not his spirit.

 

Conrí knelt beside him and held out a hand to help the brother into a sitting position. “Brother Genitivi, I presume? My name is Conrí Cousland; I’m here to help you.”

 

The brother’s suspicious look melted into relief as Genitivi took the hand and allowed himself to pulled up. “Ugh… you’ve no idea how glad I am to see somebody who isn’t from this village. I-ah!” the man cried out, wincing as his weight inadvertently rested upon his bad leg.

 

Xolana produced some bandages and a vial of a powerful painkiller from her pack and set to work, speaking to Conrí as she channeled healing energy to return the bones to their proper alignment .“I can set the leg and ease some of the pain, but I’m not Wynne, she’s the better healer. Without her, he’s gonna need a lot of rest to recover.” The elder mage had spent a lot of mana healing them as they climbed toward the Chantry. 

 

“I don’t have time to rest,” Genitivi protested. “Not when the Urn is so close.”

 

“How do you know this?” Conrí pressed for answers.

 

“My research led me here and I heard the villagers talking. The Urn is here. There is an old temple built into the mountainside to protect it. The door is locked, but with a bit of investigation, I learned where the key is. Eirik wears a medallion around his neck; it is the key to unlock the temple door.”

 

“Er, is this it?” Leliana held out her hand, revealing a necklace with an odd brass pendant marked with the stylized emblem of the sun; the Chantry’s symbol. Of course, the bard was always reasonably efficient about looting, after she had done her religious duties, Conrí noted with a trace of amusement at the contradiction. Genitivi nodded.

 

“Take me to the mountainside and I can show you how to open the door with it.”

 

“Are you sure you can make the journey?” Conrí replied worriedly, but Genitivi brushed off his concern.

 

“It is not far and… May I lean on you? For the Urn, any price is worth paying.”

 

Genitivi had been true in his words; it was not far up the mountain, for which Zevran was thankful. The temperature was dropping fast and he was immensely grateful for his gloves and the cloaks Redcliffe’s folk had bestowed on them; the hilt of his dagger would have taken skin with it otherwise. Morrigan was leaning heavily on her staff, plainly in need of a rest but too proud to say anything, and Leliana was looking a little worse for the wear as well. But with the promise of the Ashes so close, Conrí had become intent as a hound on a scent, and would likely not stop until they started dropping around him.

 

As they traipsed up the slope, Conrí turned to look at Genitivi, an arm thrown over the Warden’s shoulder for support and said, “Could I ask a question?”

 

“Of course. What’s on your mind?”

 

“Haven, it’s a little odd?”

 

Genitivi chuckled as he nodded in answer. “Well, it was hardly what I expected either, lad...”

 

“What are those people? They seemed to fight with some sort of mania; I could only call it zeal... or borderline insanity.”

 

“The villagers call themselves ‘the Disciples of Andraste’ and they are very devoted; one might say fanatically so. They must be here to protect the Urn, but...’Tis a curious thing, but they speak of Andraste as if she were still alive.”

 

“They have to be talking about the Urn...” Leliana muttered softly, but Genitivi didn’t look convinced.

 

“I thought so too at first, but now, I am not so sure...”

 

An uneasy silence fell, and Conrí broached it with another question. “The Ashes will cure Arl Eamon, won’t they? That is why we came for them...”

 

“Cure Arl Eamon?” Genitivi asked, confusion writ on his face. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

“The Arl was poisoned on Teyrn Loghain’s orders. He’s dying, Brother.”

 

“No!” Genitivi protested. “He was always the picture of health! The Arl is a noble soul, but the Ashes… the Ashes will surely cure him. There are many tales of the sick being healed, the blind seeing again and the lame dancing in joy. Perhaps it is the Ashes that does this, or perhaps it is belief that makes it so; by believing the Ashes are magical, you make them so.”

 

“It’s Andraste,” Leliana put forward, a fervent look in those bright green eyes. It seemed her faith had not wavered in spite of her acceptance of her true self. “Her compassion for others lives on.”

 

“Perhaps,” Genitivi nodded. “Such matters can be discussed further once we have the Ashes...”

 

Further conversation was prevented as they reached the top of the slope and found their path blocked by a large wooden door, simple in its construction, little detail or embellishment to it. After a bit of fiddling with the medallion, Genitivi inserted the key as he called it into a circular depression in the door’s centre and twisted. There was the sound of cogs turning and unlocking, and then the door swung open. With a satisfied smile, Genitivi hobbled inside, followed by the others.

 

It was immense. The ceiling was so high overhead that Zevran could barely see it. Light poured in through windows many times larger than any he had seen in the great halls and fine houses of Antiva’s nobility. Snowdrifts had blocked many of them, though not enough to block the light, and high above, spear-sized icicles hung precariously overhead, unnerving despite their beauty, and sending light sparkling brilliantly off the columns that lined the hall. Murals, slightly faded but still visible, graced the walls, and mosaics decorated the floors, all clearly telling of the events that led up to Andraste’s rise to power, her story and the aftermath of her battles. One mural to his left showed the darkspawn laying siege to a city that could only be Minrathous, the turmoil of the First Blight that led to the weakening of the Imperium and Andraste’s crusade against the magisters, another showed Andraste with a great sword in her hands hacking off the chains of elven slaves gathered around her, while a third showed Andraste preaching to the masses who cheered to her every word, though a shadowy figure stood at her side, a dagger hidden behind their back. Likely Maferath plotting his betrayal, Zevran assumed, remembering what little he bothered to learn about the Prophetess’s tale.

 

At the far end, there were steps leading up to another set of doors, and a large bonfire sat in the centre of the hall. Leading off the sides in periodic intervals were more corridors. However, the beauty was marred by one thing; many footprints in the snow. Someone had gotten here before them, and even now likely lay in wait.

 

Genitivi leant on Conrí’s shoulder, staring at his surroundings in wonder.

 

“This… oh, what I wouldn’t give to see this in all its glory.” With effort, he pushed himself up, limping over to examine one of the murals on the wall. “Just look at this.” Zevran had not heard anyone breathe with such reverence as this man in a very long time. Well, he had, but judging by the noises coming out of Conrí’s tent that night, what he and the bard had been up to was hardly religious; though the Maker’s name had been invoked a good few times.

 

“Still, sweep away the ice and snow, and traces of beauty remain.”

 

“Stay alert, Brother. There may be more of those fanatics prowling about up here,” Conrí remarked. Zevran applauded his powers of observation but Genitivi was too engrossed in his wonder to take in the warning for a few moments.

 

“These carvings were created just after Andraste’s death, and they may reveal things about her life that we do not yet know. I could use some time to study them properly, and in any case, I could not keep up with you with my injuries. Go ahead; perhaps it was only my destiny to lead you to the Urn.”

 

“Is there anything more you can tell us? Anything your research says about this structure that might be helpful?” Erin asked, helping a still fatigued Wynne stay on her feet. 

 

“It was designed to protect the Urn from those who would steal or do harm to it… namely, the agents of the Tevinter Imperium”

 

“I have no intention of harming the Urn,” was Conrí’s solemn reply.

 

“Well, I would hope not. If the legend is true, no one will reach the Urn with malice in their heart. ‘The Maker’s gaze falls upon Andraste’s final resting place; He weeps for His Beloved, and His wrath at her betrayers endures’,” the brother intoned.

 

“So the Maker’s wrath strikes down the unworthy here?” Xolana replied with a raised eyebrow. Zevran couldn’t fault the mage’s skepticism; after all, her kind had hardly gotten a fair lot in life from the Chantry, so one could hardly blame her for being more than a little dismissive of Chantry dogma.

 

“Well, that’s what the legend says, and the Maker may indeed watch over this place,” the brother replied fairly. “Read between the lines, however, and you’ll see it’s nothing but a simple truth draped in hyperbole and metaphor. After all, no one wants to hear ‘Willy toiled for many a year to perfect the curious mechanisms that would send a sharpened spike up the arse of the unwary intruder’.”

 

“Oh, that sounds pleasant,” Zev muttered sarcastically. Just what they needed, an abandoned temple overrun with deranged cultists and riddled with booby traps. This is turning into a spectacular set of events!

 

“I think my decision to stay here was the best one, don’t you?” Clearly the brother’s dry wit hadn’t deserted him during his incarceration.

 

“Absolutely. We’ll be back soon enough,” Conrí replied as he and the group left the brother to his study, and made for the stairs into the temple proper.

 

* * *

 

“Stop! You will go no further!” barked a man in heavy silverite armor, his expression bristling with anger, his voice booming in the enclosed space. He was tall: as tall as Loghain, with the same dark hair, but with a heavy beard and a darker complexion. Under black brows, dark eyes burned with rage. He glared at her furiously, taking in every detail of her appearance. “You have defiled our temple, spilled the blood of the faithful, and slaughtered our young! You will tell me now, intruder, why you have done all this!”

  


Conrí glanced around the chamber quickly, taking in the number of men and their weapons. He and his companions had been fighting all day, and these men were fresh. 

 

The cultists had been bad enough, but the ones in the tunnels and passages honeycombing the mountain were somewhat more of a challenge than those who’d assailed them in the village, clad in better armor, with better weapons and possessing a measure of ability their fellows in the village below had not. Even so, they were still fanatics, not warriors, and zeal could only compensate so much for a deficit in skill. They provided a more difficult fight than the villagers, but they fell all the same.

 

And then there were the dragons. It had been Conrí’s understanding that dragons had only been declared back from near-extinction thirty years ago, so to discover such a large nest in the heartland of Ferelden was quite disconcerting. Even newly hatched, the dragonlings were each as big as a Nevarran crocodile and just as vicious. Even if their needle-like fangs had trouble biting through metal armor, the periodic bouts of fire and their numbers made them dangerous; particularly to the lightly armored companions, such as Morrigan and Xolana, who now bore several deep bites on their arms and legs. Even worse were the drakes - far larger and far more aggressive than the hatchlings they guarded, their feral rage only increasing, throwing themselves at the group with abandon, and refusing to die until they suffered the most grievous of blows. After several encounters, the solution had been to let Morrigan and Xolana encase the charging drake in ice, and then leave the beast to be shattered into icicles by Shale’s fists, less dangerous and more effective by far. The presence of so many drakes and dragon hatchlings unnerved Conrí a little, because if he remembered his lessons, they usually indicated the presence of something far worse...

 

“I am Conrí Cousland,” he said after a moment. “Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. We did not come to attack you. We did not come to kill anyone. We came for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and we will not leave until we have set eyes upon it.”

 

The man was incredulous. “You have done all this for a worthless relic? The Urn has no value to us. It contains only the remains of Andraste's former manifestation. We, who are privileged to serve the living Andraste, have no time for such trifles.”

 

“The living Andraste?” Alistair said, shocked and disbelieving. “You cannot mean that!”

 

“Andraste died many ages ago,” Leliana said earnestly.

 

A scornful laugh. “You know nothing! So know this, strangers: the Prophetess Andraste has overcome death itself and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine. We are Her chosen.”

 

“That's...” Conrí managed, trying not to gape like a fool. “That's... an extraordinary claim.”

 

The dark man seemed gratified by his astonishment. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Father Kolgrim, leader and guide to the Disciples of Andraste. She is no long-dead myth, but a living being of immeasurable power. Long ago we were chosen to serve Her, and so we have for these ages past.”

 

“And yet you have kept her secret,” Conrí said. “Why? All Thedas reveres Andraste and would welcome her return. Why does she not reveal herself?”

 

Kolgrim studied him, dark eyes considering. He smiled faintly.

 

“She is not yet ready to make Her power known. None but the Disciples may approach Andraste. When the time is right, She will descend upon the nations in fiery splendor, and all will know Her. I warn you: kill us, and you will face Her. She will smell our blood upon you and Her wrath will be great.”

 

“We are not here to kill, but to find the Ashes. What has become of them?” Conrí growled.

 

Kolgrim scoffed, with a quick, strong gesture of dismissal. “They are still within the funerary temple, but we care nothing for them. Why would we need them, when Andraste in all Her glory walks and breathes among us? But you, who want the Ashes... Many have come here, but only you have had the skill and fortitude to pass the temple. Perhaps there is a way to atone for your recent transgressions...”

 

Conrí held up his hand to silence his own people whose voices had begun rising in protest . “What do you mean? Why would you wish to cooperate with one you consider an enemy?”

 

“Perhaps…” Kolgrim said, eyes intent on Conrí’s scarred face, “Perhaps I believe in second chances. All of us stumble through the darkness before being found and shown the light. Perhaps… through Andraste's mercy, Her greatest enemy could become Her greatest Champion.” Conrí frowned at him, waiting. “The Ashes you seek are not a half-mile away, up through the cavern and in the midst of the next mountain to the east. An immortal guardian protects the shrine, but the being rejects us and refuses to recognize the truth of the Risen Lady. The Ashes are the merest remnant of a dead woman, but they prevent the holy Andraste from fully realizing Her new form. The Beloved needs to reclaim the Ashes, to make them Her own again. With a few drops of the Risen Andraste's blood, the link to Her old incarnation would be severed. Blood carries power, strength, and knowledge. Through it, all the power that is held in the Ashes will be returned to our Lady. Take a vial of Our Lady's Blood, and empty it into the dead Ashes.”

 

Mutiny boiling behind him, Conrí shook his head. “I cannot promise such a thing. I need the Ashes to heal a sick man.”

 

“You need only a pinch for that,” Kolgrim quickly assured him. “Take that pinch for yourself, then complete your quest, and release Andraste!”

 

“Why would this guardian admit me to the shrine?” Conrí asked. “You have... disciples… you have warriors. Why not go yourself?”

 

“The guardian knows us. We cannot overcome him, for he draws his strength from the Ashes. We cannot so much as enter the precinct. But you — you are unknown to him. He would take you for a pilgrim. You could deliver to Our Lady what is rightfully Hers. You could enter the shrine, perform this service, and then Andraste would be revealed to all the nations of Thedas. The rewards for performing such a service would be great indeed.”

 

“Rewards are always good,” Zevran observed softly. Conrí shot him a quelling look.

 

“What rewards do you offer?” he asked Kolgrim bluntly.

 

“There is great power in the Our Lady's blood. As Andraste's True Champion, you would be admitted to our ranks as an honored brother, sharing in the power of Her Blood. Through Andraste's guidance we have learned to harness that power. All these secrets would be yours.”

 

Conrí made a show of contemplation. “Hm. Very well. Lead on and show us this risen Andraste.”

 

Kolgrim grinned wickedly and beckoned them forward. Conrí turned to see several angry and mutinous faces behind him. With a sly grin, he shot them a wink. 

 

Zevran and Leliana caught on first. Zevran leaned over to Alistair and muttered. “Play along, my friend. There is method to the apparent madness.”

 

“He’s not considering…?” Alistair hissed.

 

“No. A ruse. Nothing more. The commander is much more cunning than most give him credit for. He wishes to discover if this so called risen Andraste is a foe worth confronting or if it would be advantageous to rely on the better part of valor.”

 

“Uh…”

 

“Discretion, Alistair,” Leliana sighed. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

  


“Oh. I knew that.”  


 

* * *

 

Outside the caverns, they found themselves in a barren no man's land, flat and burnt off, separating the two mountain peaks. A long stone road connected them, with bluffs rising up along either side at the far end. Kolgrim strode quickly away, with barely a glance behind to assure him that Conrí was coming. Further off to the right were the ruins of an ancient pavilion—possibly yet another shrine. The air was cold and unbelievably clear, hinting at things undreamed of.

 

Kolgrim was waiting for them under a sheer bluff, accompanied by two of his Reavers. A pair of archers was off to the side. Conrí considered a surprise assault then and there, but was held back by a certain curiosity. Would it be a mere silly puppet-show, impressive only to inbred yokels, or would it be a true wonder?

 

The man himself was looking back at him with… well, not exactly a smirk, but an expression of satisfaction, as of one who held the winning cards. In his hands was an ornate horn, magnificent with gold mountings. The horn was a curious shade of rich lavender. Conrí wondered how they had dyed an ox horn such a beautiful color, until he realized…

 

“That is the tip of a dragon horn,” he said.

 

“Blessed Andraste! You're right!” Alistair gasped. Then he calmed himself. “We know they raise dragons here. It is hardly surprising that they have some of their remains.”

 

Kolgrim lifted the horn and blew into the golden mouthpiece. A terrible music rang up to the cloud-capped mountain peaks. An even more terrible roar woke the echoes in reply. A huge shadow detached itself from the top of the bluff, and with a deafening thunder of wings, descended upon them.

 

“Maker!” Erin gasped. Running would do no good. No good at all.

 

The dragon soared lazily over their heads and settled onto the path before them, shaking the earth. It was a healthy High Dragon, considerably larger than the form Flemeth had assumed. Kolgrim did not flinch or retreat, but adopted a servile demeanor. He crossed his arms before him, and bowed low.

 

Conrí, axe in hand, looked at his friends with a wild surmise. In their eyes he saw his own sudden, utter comprehension reflected.

 

This, then, was Andraste.

 

“You see now?' Kolgrim demanded, eyes riveted on the monstrous beast confronting them. “She has risen, and is more glorious than all the Old Gods combined. Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay Her now!”

 

Kolgrim walked forward, straight toward the slavering jaws of the dragon. Conrí thought he deserved points for that, dragon-worshipping zealot or not.

 

“O Beloved Andraste! Most Holy Andraste! We praise Your name! I bring before You Your true Champion. Permit him to pass, Beloved One! Let him pave the way for Your glory!”

 

Andraste appeared to be thinking about it. If the dragon decided instead that they all looked tasty, Conrí wondered if Kolgrim would put up a fight. Probably not. He would probably think being eaten by the “Beloved” was some sort of honor. It was all he could do to keep a moderately worshipful look on his face. Beside him Koun growled and backed away slightly, clearly thinking that it was time to leave. There was no holy mystery here, after all: just a pack of inbred lunatics who had backslid into Tevinter-style dragon worship, with the added fillip of naming their 'god' Andraste. It was horrifying and ugly and pitiable; not a vision of the Divine. This dragon was not Conrí’s sort of god at all — or Leliana's, or Alistair's, or of anyone else who possessed a shred of sanity. The creature's strength, however, deserved the respect accorded any supremely dangerous enemy.

 

An endless, endless wait. Conrí momentarily expected a mighty inhalation that would signal a blast of flame, and readied himself to leap aside. Instead, the beast looked them over, and then suddenly flapped its wings, staggering them with the force of the downdraft. It took to the skies with a triumphant bellow, and flew back to its lair at the top of the bluffs. Kolgrim watched its every move, eyes glittering in rapture. After a deep, reverential sigh, he turned to Conrí. “The Beloved Andraste will let you pass. Go, and may Her strength uphold you. You know what you must do.”

 

* * *

 

Conrí  set his axe against the wall on the inside of the temple and slumped down next to it. Despite his bravado, he was tiring quickly now. “We should rest here for a little while at least,” Erin groaned, sliding down next to her brother.

 

“Rest… would be very welcome,” Wynne sighed, taking a sip from a lyrium flask. Everyone was exhausted. Even Sten was showing fatigue. 

 

“I sure hope this relic is worth the trouble we’re going through to get it,” Garik grunted, sitting heavily across from the siblings. “If these ashes don’t wake Lord Fancy-pants up, I may just kill him for this,” Serena grumbled an agreement as she rubbed her shoulder under the pauldron. Alistair sent the dwarves a glare, but his heart wasn’t in it. If he’d been honest, his own thoughts weren’t much different. 

 

After an hour or so, Xolana took one last pull from a lyrium bottle and used a Rejuvenation spell to get everyone else back on their feet. “Let’s get this over with,” she sighed, relieved she still had enough mana to keep moving. 

 

Not far from their resting place was a set of stairs that led up to what seemed to be the main entrance hall. Standing near the only door was a tall man with a jet black beard and shining silverite heavy chainmail armor. The style was archaic, likely Tevinter in origin. But what drew everyone’s attention were the man’s eyes. While he appeared fairly young, mid thirties at the oldest, his eyes had an ancient wisdom to them that belied his youthful appearance. “I bid you welcome, pilgrims,” he said as the group drew near. His voice seemed to echo with an ethereal strength. 

 

“You are the Guardian, I take it?” Tira asked.

 

“Yes. I am the Guardian of the Sacred Ashes,” the man answered. “I have waited years for this.”

 

“Why have you been here so long?” Serena questioned. 

 

“It has been my duty,” the Guardian explained. My life, to protect the urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting have I been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.”

 

“The Imperium’s time has come and gone,” Xolana pointed out. “It is nowhere near as vast as it used to be.”

 

“Ah,” the Guardian seemed surprised, yet pleased. “Is it not? Then perhaps this is the beginning of the end…”

 

“Kolgrim and his followers…” Erin started. “Who are they?”

 

“When my brethren and I carried Andraste from Tevinter to this sanctuary, we vowed to forever revere Her memory, and guard Her. I have watched generations of my brethren take up the mantle of their fathers. For centuries, they did this, unwavering, joyful of their appointed task. But now they have lost their way. They have forgotten Andraste, and their promise.”

 

“And what are you, exactly?” Garik questioned. 

 

“I am all that remains of the first disciples,” the Guardian told him, pride and sadness in his echoing voice. “I swore I would protect the Urn as long as I lived, and have lived a very long time.”

 

“The first disciples?” Leliana asked, excitement evident in her tone. “Did you know Andraste?”

 

“Did anyone really know her, save the Maker?” the Guardian shrugged. “She would sometimes spend weeks alone in meditation, often without food or water.”

 

“What was she like?” Leliana persisted.

 

“I… cannot express in words my love for Andraste,” the Guardian sighed. “You must seek Her out yourself. Everyone must.”

 

“How is it possible you have lived so long?” Conrí asked, his mind turning to Avernus, but the Guardian’s answer put him a bit more at ease. 

 

“I made a vow, to Andraste and to the Maker. My life is tied to the Ashes. As long as they remain, so will I.”

 

“I had serious doubts, but that dragon is not really Andraste, is she?” Conrí continued.

 

“No,” the Guardian shook his head. “Our Andraste has gone to the Maker’s side. She will not return. The dragon is a fearsome creature and they must have seen her as an alternative to the absent Maker and His silent Andraste. A true believer would not require audacious displays of power.”

 

“Then how did the belief spread to the rest of the disciples?” Wynne asked.

 

“It began with an ancestor of the one called Kolgrim. He saw himself as a new prophet, preaching the rebirth. Some disagreed with him. I heard their cries of pain and loss which were quickly silenced.”

 

“Would you have us eliminate them?” Serena asked.

 

“The Maker will sit in judgment of them, when the time comes,” the Guardian assured the dwarf.

 

“Can you take us to the Urn, Guardian?” Conrí asked.

 

“You have come to honor Andraste, and you will, if you prove yourselves worthy,” the Guardian told the group.

 

“So… we have to fight you?” Erin asked, worry entering her voice. The heavy maul across the Guardian’s back could cause a lot of damage and none of them were up for a big fight.

 

“It is not my place to decide your worthiness,” the Guardian chuckled, motioning for Erin to calm. “The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourselves. If not…”

 

Conrí nodded and turned to his group. “If any wish to stay behind, it is your choice. Morrigan, Sten, Shale, I expect you wish to sit this one out?”

 

“You expect correctly,” Morrigan huffed, crossing her arms and sliding back to the floor.

 

“I will remain as well,” Sten rumbled. “This temple has nothing for me.”

 

“I am content to stay here, Warden,” Shale added.

 

“Anyone else?” Conrí asked. When none spoke he turned back to the Guardian. “We are ready for this Gauntlet.”

 

“Before you go,” the Guardian held up a hand. “There is something I must ask. I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past - your suffering, and the suffering of others.” Conrí’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t… “Conrí and Erin Cousland, you abandoned your father and mother, leaving them in the hands of Rendon Howe, knowing he would show no mercy. Do you think you failed your parents?”

 

“How do you know of our past, spirit?” Conrí growled. 

 

“Your path is laid out before me, and plain to see,” the Guardian took no offence to Conrí’s tone. “In the lines of your faces and the scars on your hearts. My question remains. Do you believe you failed your parents?”

 

Conrí’s shoulders slumped. “Yes… I was the eldest child in the castle and rather than staying and fighting as I should have… I ran like a coward… Our parents died alone because I wasn’t strong enough…”

 

“On the eve I was to take on my first real responsibility…” Erin whispered. “I failed to stop a betrayal that should have seemed obvious…”

 

“Thank you,” the Guardian said quietly. “That is all I wished to know.” The utter lack of judgment in the ancient warrior’s voice did nothing to quell the pain in the hearts of the Cousland twins. In fact, it was like salt in an open wound. 

 

“Ma Vhenan…” Tira whispered, embracing Erin from behind. They had never spoken at length about what happened before Ostagar. Her family had always been a sore spot for Erin.

 

“And what of those who follow you? Tira Mahariel,” the Guardian turned to the Dalish elf, who stiffened. “Tamlen was one of your tribe, a blood brother. You left him in the ruins. Left him to his fate. Tell me, pilgrim. Did you fail Tamlen?”

 

“I… I should have pulled him away from that damned mirror… I knew it wasn’t going to end well… yet I did nothing.” Erin gripped Tira’s trembling hand, the pain in her heart increasing with guilt at having forgotten her lover’s pain.

 

“And you, Serena Aeducan. Bhelen’s machinations left Trian dead and you exiled to the surface lands, your honor and caste stripped. Tell me, Serena, did you fail Trian?”

 

“Yes!” Serena barked, tears threatening to fall. “Is that what you want to hear?! Rather than talking to Trian and putting the feud to rest, I decided to ignore the problem! Now Trian’s dead, my own people hate me and my own baby brother stabbed me in the back…” Serena ducked her head, months of pent up anger and grief came pouring out in bitter sobs and tears. She only looked up when she felt a large hand on her shoulder. She turned to see it belonged to Garik. There was no smirk on his face, no innuendo on his lips. She saw only an offer. And despite her pride, she took it, pressing into the rogue and burying her face in his chest. Garik merely held the berserker princess, never speaking.

 

“You are too hard on yourselves, all of you,” Alistair said after Serena’s sobs had quieted. “No one is perfect.”

 

“Is there any religion that does not thrive upon guilt like a glutton at his lunch?” Morrigan snipped. “No? I thought not.”

 

Leliana glared at Morrigan briefly before turning back to her emotionally wounded companions. “None of you could have known. You acted as you thought was best.”

 

“Life, especially ours, is far too short for what-ifs,” Garik said, arms still around Serena.

 

“By the time you reached Shianni, Blair Tabris, she was broken, brutalized,” the Guardian intoned, his ancient gaze falling on the rogue. “You were too late. Did you fail your cousin?”

 

“Vaughn was scum,” Blair sneered. “My only regret is that I couldn’t make his death slower. He is no longer a danger to my family. I wish I could have gotten there sooner, yes, but if I had, I may have left an army at my back.”

 

“Then you do not dwell on past mistakes. Neither yours, nor someone else’s,” the Guardian nodded. “What of you, Tristan Surana? Jowan was discovered by the templars. You were helping him. Tell me, did you fail Jowan?”

 

“No,” Tristan said grimly. “I only regret that Jowan didn’t trust me enough to tell me. It was the lie that hurt most, not the fact he was a blood mage. If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Except perhaps that damned sentinel snapping my staff.”

 

“Let’s get this over with,” Xolana sighed. “Ask your questions, Guardian.”

 

“Uldred promised you freedom, and the only cost would be your blood. You allowed him to make monsters of those you had known for years, killing many more and lead you down the path of a blood mage. Tell me, Xolana Amell. Have you failed yourself?”

 

“No,” Xolana shook her head. “I regret not stopping Uldred when I had the chance, but in end, I’m the one who ended his schemes. I will not apologize for the blood magic, as it is a useful, if dangerous tool.. a last resort. My magic will serve the best in me, not the worst.”

 

“Go ahead, Spirit, or whatever you are,” Garik sighed.

 

“Garik Brosca, you have been a thief and criminal most of your life. But when the chance came to better yourself, you took it with only minor hesitation, leaving your family and friend to an uncertain future. Do you regret taking the mantle of Warden?”

 

“Not for a moment,” Garik said immediately. “I don’t deny I worry for my sister, mother and Leske. But Rica’s tough and smart. If there’s a way to better her life, she’ll find it. All the while, dragging my mother along for the ride. And Leske? Ha. The duster probably faded into the shadows like he always does.”

 

The Guardian nodded. “Alistair, knight and Warden… you wonder if things would have been different if you were on the battlefield with Duncan. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don’t you, if you should have died and not him?”

 

“I… yes,” Alistair swallowed, ducking his head. “If Duncan had been saved and not me, everything would be better. If I’d just had the chance, maybe…”

 

“Ask your question, Guardian,” Wynne stepped up. “I am ready.”

 

“You are ever the advisor, ready with a word of wisdom. Do you wonder if you spout only platitudes, burned into your mind in the distant past? Perhaps you are only a tool, used to spread the word of the circle and the Chantry. Does doubt ever chip away at your truths?”

 

“You frame the statement in the form of a question, yet you already know our answers,” Wynne pointed out. “There is no sense in hiding is there? Yes, I do doubt at times. Only the fool is completely certain of himself.”

 

“And you…” the Guardian turned to Leliana. “Why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself Her equal?”

 

“I never said that!” Leliana snapped. 

 

“In Orlais, you were someone. In Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister, and disappear. When your brothers and sisters in the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative.”

 

“You’re saying I made it up for… for the attention?” Leliana demanded. “I did not! I know what I believe!”

 

The Guardian seemed satisfied. It seemed he asked not only questions of guilt, but also of doubt. “And the Antivan elf…”

 

“Is it my turn now?” Zevran asked, hiding his worry under a veil of sarcasm. “Hurrah, I’m so excited.”

 

“Many have died at your hand, but is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of…” the Guardian was cut off by the assassin.   
  
“How do you know about that?!” Zevran demanded. He shook his head. “Bah. Yes, the answer is yes, if that is what you wish to know. I do. Now move on.”

 

“Ask whatever questions you wish, Spirit,” Sten rumbled.   
  
“You came to this land as an observer,” The Guardian intoned. “But you killed a family in a blind rage. Have you failed your people, by allowing the Qunari to be seen in that light?”

 

“I have never denied that I failed,” Sten growled.

 

“Shale, the stone giant,” the Guardian seemed puzzled and saddened by the golem. “There is so little I can draw from you. I feel the distant echo of a soul, dormant for so long, now awake…”

 

“Good for you,” Shale snarked.

 

“And with the Awakening, the slow realization of all you have lost. Ah, Shale… your entire existence is a test of your will and courage. You have my respect. And Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth… what…”

 

He was cut off again, this time by the witch. “Begone, Spirit. I will not play your games,” Morrigan said shortly.

 

“I will respect your wishes. The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek,” the Guardian stepped aside and the main doors flew open. When the group went to look back at the armor clad spirit, he was nowhere to be found. 

 

Conrí dragged a hand through his bedraggled hair and sighed. “Well. Let’s get this over with.”

 

Through the main door was a long, fairly narrow room with what looked like ethereal people standing in it. They all turned and began approaching as soon as the party entered. The first to reach them was a young woman with dark brown hair.

“The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not,” said the woman in the same echoed way as the Guardian. “Of what do I speak?”

 

“Riddles?” Conrí asked, looking to the rest of the group. Everyone shrugged or nodded.

 

“A tune!” Leliana piped up after a moment. Conrí smiled slightly. Of course a musical question was right up Leliana’s alley. 

 

The woman smiled and nodded. “Yes. I am Ealisay; I was Andraste’s dearest friend in Childhood, and always we would sing. She celebrated the beauty of life, and all who heard Her would be filled with joy. They say the Maker Himself was moved by Andraste’s song. And then she sang no more of simple things.” The spirit or projection of Ealisay faded and turned to a grey smoke before darting to the door in the back of the room.

 

“So we have to play a riddle game before we can move on,” Garik sighed. “Joy.”   


The next to approach the group was a middle aged woman in peasant craft mourning clothes. Her gaze was somber, a stark contrast to Ealisay. “Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come,” she said. “Thought’s strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?”

 

Xolana frowned before offering, “Dreams.”

 

The woman sighed. “My name in life was Brona. A dream came upon me as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life, and of her betrayal and death. I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save.”

 

Everyone present gave a collective swallow to hide the pang of grief when they realized they had just spoken to a shade of Andraste’s mother… before they could process this, a slightly younger woman approached. 

 

Unlike Brona, she was wearing high class robes of Tevinter, and her sneer was all too recognizable as one who thought herself above most who came before her. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The debt of blood must be paid in full. Of what do I speak?” she demanded.

 

“Vengeance,” Erin and Serena said at the same time, anger and bitterness clear in their tone.

 

“Yes. I am the Lady Vasilia. My husband Hessarian would have chosen a quick death for Andraste. I made him swear that She would die publically with Her war leaders, that all would know the Imperium’s strength. I am justice. I am vengeance. Blood can only be repaid in blood.” Like those before her, Lady Vasilia faded and turned to smoke, though hers was much darker than Ealisay or Brona’s. 

 

The next to approach was a bald elf wearing light leather armor. Any who knew anything about the Chant knew this must be Shartan, one of Andraste’s most trusted generals. “I’d neither a guest, nor trespasser be,” said Shartan as he drew close. “In this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?”

 

“Home,” Conrí rasped out after a long moment. His voice was sad, tired to the point Leliana gripped his hand covertly to give as much support as she could. 

 

Shartan sighed quietly. “It was my dream for the People to have a home of their own, where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste against the Imperium. But She was betrayed… and so were we.”

 

A human man followed Shartan, wearing old fashioned Chantry robes of all things. “The bones of world stretch toward the sky’s embrace,” he said. “Veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom. Of what do I speak?”

 

This one stumped them for a few minutes before it clicked in Garik’s mind. “The mountains.”

 

“Yes. I am Havard. I carried Andraste’s Ashes out of Tevinter into the mountains to the east where She could gaze ever into Her Maker’s sky. No more fitting a tomb than this could we find.” Like his counterparts, he turned to smoke and headed to the door.

 

The next man who approached everyone but the dwarves recognized immediately. Even the Dalish told of General Maferath’s betrayal. “A poison of the soul,” he said in a tired voice. “Passion’s cruel counterpoint; from love she grows, till love lies slain. Of what do I speak?”

 

“Jealousy,” Blair said quietly.

 

“Yes,” Maferath admitted. “Jealousy drove me to betrayal. I was the greatest general of the Alamarri, but beside Her I was nothing. Hundreds fell before Her on bended knee. They loved her, as did the Maker. I loved Her too, but what man can compete with a God?”

 

Another man, this one in similar robes to Havard, came next, but unlike the warrior, this one had the almost crazed expression of a zealot rather than the grim look of a friend who had to carry the ashes of someone he cared about out of enemy territory.

 

“No man has seen it, but all men know it,” he said, tone matching his expression. “Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing but will fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak?”

 

“Hunger,” Tira said after a moment as her stomach gave a growl. She blushed slightly. This got a small smile from most in the group but no laughter as it normally would have.

 

“Yes, hunger was the weapon used against the wicked men of the Tevinter Imperium,” said the Disciple, his zeal growing with each word. “The Maker kindled the sun’s flame, scorching the land. Their crops failed and their armies could not march. Then, He opened the heavens and bade the Waters flow, and washed away their filth. I am Cathaire, disciple of Andraste and Commander of her armies. I saw these things done and knew the Maker smiled on us.” Much like Vasilia, Cathaire’s smoke was darker and denser than his counterparts. Even Maferath’s smoke had a lighter shade. 

 

The last to approach them was a man in Tevinter robes with of all things, a Greatsword on his back. Leliana immediately recognized it as a Sword of Mercy… or rather, the first Sword of Mercy. This was Archon Hessarian. 

 

“She wields the broken sword and separates true kings from tyrants,” said Hessarian. “Of what do I speak?”

 

“Mercy,” said Alistair, looking faintly amazed that he’d figured it out first.

 

“Yes,” the Archon nodded. “I could not bear the sight of Andraste’s suffering, and mercy bade me end her life. I am the penitent sinner, who shows compassion as he hopes compassion will be shown to him.”

 

As Hessarian’s surprisingly light smoke hit the doors, they swung open. As soon as they stepped through, they were all greeted by a blinding white light.

 

* * *

 

When the light finally cleared, Tristan found himself, not in a ruined hallway, but back in the tower, of all places. He was near the entrance to the basements where he’d been confronted by Greagoir and recruited by Duncan. As he was processing this strange turn of events, the door to the basement opened.

 

And who would walk up the stairs but Jowan. Unlike the last time Tristan had seen him, Jowan was surprisingly clean and wore the smile Tristan had grown familiar with while growing up.

 

“Had fun with the riddle game?” Jowan asked with a snicker as he drew level with Tristan.

 

“Finally someone who speaks plainly,” Tristan grumbled.

 

“But they do speak plainly. Riddles speak to your soul and your gut more often than your mind,” Jowan told him. Then he shrugged dismissively. “Or they always seemed to for me.”

 

“You always did seem fond of such things, Jowan,” Tristan pointed out.

 

“True enough,” Jowan nodded. “You have wondered many times if what happened to me was your doing, old friend. Perhaps if we’d taken another route, or we’d been better prepared, things would be different. But it is too easy to obsess over ‘what if’ and ‘what could have been.’ These thought will eat away at you if you let them. Forgive yourself, just as I have forgiven you,” Jowan reached into the pocket of his robe. “I have something for you,” Jowan or possibly the spirit using Jowan’s face handed Tristan a simple pendent on a silver strand. The back the pendent had been polished to a mirror shine while the front had “Reflection” etched into it. “Use it well. It makes me happy, knowing you will be the mage I never could. Take care, old friend. And keep an eye on Amell. She does tend to get in trouble quite often.”

 

Tristan nodded. “Goodbye, Jowan.”

 

“Farewell, Tristan,” Jowan said, lifting his hand and Tristan was greeted by another blinding white light.

 

* * *

 

Conrí and Erin grit their teeth. Once again, some force had drawn them to their home, but unlike the encounter with the Sloth demon, there was no visible sign this was the Fade. “More spirit nonsense,” Erin grumbled.

 

Footsteps behind them made the twins spin around… but what they saw stopped them cold.

 

“My dearest children…” said Bryce Cousland as he stopped a few paces from them. Beside him was Eleanor. 

 

Conrí’s eyes widened in shock then narrowed in fury. “You have a lot of nerve to imitate my father, spirit,” he snarled. 

 

The apparitions approached closer making the twins slip their hands towards their weapons, backing up a step. Undeterred, Bryce and Eleanor continued walking. Before Conrí could draw his axe, he felt a warm hand on his face. The hand belonged to Eleanor.

 

His mother. 

 

Conrí froze, his senses assaulted by the familiar callused warmth of his mother’s hand on his cheek and the scent of lavender that followed her around as long as he could remember.Just next to him, Erin had been stuck fast by a similar feeling as Bryce cupped her face. Without realizing it, both brother and sister hand dropped their hands away from their weapons.

 

“Mother?” Conrí choked out.

 

“Father…?” Erin breathed. The pair smiled gently and nodded. 

 

“You really need a shave, Conrí. You’re beginning to look like a wild man,” Eleanor scolded gently. Conrí squeezed his eyes shut as his hand gripped his mother’s and tears began to run down his face. His head lowered just in time to rest on Eleanor’s shoulder as she hugged him tight. “I’m here, Pup,” she whispered in his ear. 

 

“Papa…” Erin whimpered as she gripped the front of Bryce’s shirt and buried her face in his chest. Bryce merely held his daughter as she cried. 

 

When the twins finally got a hold of themselves, their parents released them and stood side by side smiling sadly at their children. “You know that we are gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring us back,” Bryce said. “Pups… I know that you miss us, but our death and our life, no longer have a hold on you.”

 

“This is how it should be,” said Eleanor. “Set your eyes on the horizon, do not look back, and do not falter.”

 

“No more must you grieve, my boy and girl,” Bryce continued. “Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go. It is time. You have such a long road ahead of you, and you must be prepared. And so we leave these in your hands… I know you will do great things with them.” Bryce and Eleanor pressed a pendant into Conrí and Erin’s hands. The twins examined them for a moment before looking back to their parents and nodding.

 

Eleanor smiled, tears in her eyes and she grabbed Bryce’s hand. “My little boy and baby girl have grown so strong. Keep going, and know you always make is both so proud.”

 

As one, Bryce and Eleanor raised the hands not clasped with their partner, and faded out along with Highever Castle in a blinding white light.

 

* * *

 

Tira glanced around herself warily. Somehow, she’d found herself in the clearing where she and Tamlen had run into the three scavengers what seemed like a lifetime before. A rustling in the brush made her seize her bow, nock an arrow and draw it back. After a few tense heartbeats, an elf emerged from the trees. His face made Tira falter.

 

“It is so cold here, Sister,” Tamlen shivered. “Do you feel it? The chill eats at my bones…”

 

“Tamlen?” Tira whispered, her heart in her throat. “Is that… really you?”

 

Tamlen smiled sadly. “You think; ‘This cannot be Tamlen. Tamlen is gone; he is only footsteps in the dust.’ I am Tamlen, and yet I am not. I am part of the Gauntlet and part of you.”

 

Tira lowered her bow and her head. “I wish I could have told Tamlen I tried to find him…” the arrow dropped to the dirt as tears streamed down Tira’s face. Memories of her friend, her brother, began flying through her mind at almost incomprehensible speed. She cried quietly for a few moments before she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders. 

 

“Some things lost can never be found, some mistakes never unmade,” Tamlen told her, squeezing her shoulders slightly. “Those that survive must go on living. You have suffered enough, thinking you could have done something.”

 

“I could have pulled you away, Tamlen!” Tira cried. “I could have…” Tamlen cut her off.

 

“It is time to leave that behind,” he said quietly but firmly, resting his forehead against Tira’s. “I will not say I forgive you, lethallan. For there is nothing to forgive. Take this,” he reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a silver amulet with a mirrored back side. “It is nothing compared to the work of our fathers, but it should serve you well. I wish you well, my friend… we will not meet again.”

 

* * *

 

Serena gripped her axe and shield tight. “I’m still not used to this magic shit…” she mumbled. Her surroundings did nothing to assuage her worry. Before, she was in the temple dedicated to the human’s prophet. Now she was in the old Aeducan Thaig. 

 

In the same chamber she had found Trian’s body.

 

As Serena gazed about for enemies, a throat clearing behind her made the dwarven princess spin around. Who she found behind her was the last person she thought she would see again. “Greetings, my exiled sister,” Trian grumped. “I would lament your fate, but why should I? You have been cast out to walk the surface whereas I… Hmph…” Trian’s gaze softened more than Serena had seen in years. “But I am too hard on you. Bhelen made fools of us both,” he shook his head, a grim smirk on his face. “Were I a spectator, I would applaud him for his clever manipulations. However, I find it hard for me to remain… unbiased in this regard.”

 

Serena struggled to meet her brother’s gaze, almost dropping her weapons when her shoulders slumped. “I am sorry, Trian…” she breathed after a while.

 

“Do not let the betrayals of Orzammar weigh down your steps,” Trian advised. “Sister, I know you are haunted by shame and regret. Let the past stay in the past. Take this, and use it well,” he took the hand Serena was holding the grip of her shield with and pressed a small silver necklace into her palm. After closing her fingers around the pendant, Trian gripped Serena’s shoulder. “You have not faltered and I am proud of you. I give you this… and my blessing. Remember me.” Trian backed up a few steps and raised his hand. Serena shielded her eyes from the blinding white light that followed. 

 

* * *

 

Garik cocked an eyebrow as he looked around his old neighborhood. Somehow, he’d teleported from some old temple in the middle of the Frostbacks all the way to Dust Town. “Magic is weird,” he sighed. Someone slugged his shoulder making him grunt and swing reflexively at the one who did it.

 

Leske ducked the swing with a chuckle. “Hey. What’s shapin’?” he asked, keeping his fighting pose.

 

“Hey, Lesk,” Garik greeted evenly, circling his old friend with his fists at the ready.

 

Leske put on a false hurt expression. “Haven’t seen me for months and all you have to say is, ‘Hey, Lesk’?” he asked jabbing at Garik, who blocked. “Not even a ‘So, how’s hiding from Jarvia been so far?’ She wants to take me apart layer by layer. Didn’t know I had that many layers. Did I mention she’s real upset about Beraht?”

 

Garik sighed as he ducked a left hook from Leske and responded with an easy uppercut. “You know I had to leave. By the bleeding stone, you told me to.”

 

“I know it’s been playing on your mind,” Leske told him, aiming a low kick at Garik’s shins. “How you left us in the darkest muck-pit this side of the Deep Roads, despite the smack you talked to that Guardian duster. But it’s all right,” Leske straightened up with a grin. “Don’t want to be all mopey. You can let go and forgive yourself. I forgive you. You gotta go to Andraste with a joyful heart, right? She’s like a Paragon for humans. Here, I found this lying around and I’ve no use for it,” Leske tossed Garik a silver pendant. “I know you’ll something good with it. Goodbye my friend. Remember me.”

 

“As if I could forget that ugly mug,” Garik snickered.

 

Leske gave him a two finger salute before lifting his other hand and vanishing along with Dust Town in a burning light.

 

* * *

 

Blair sighed as she gazed up at the Vhenadahl. She’d spent so much time climbing it as a child, ignoring the scoldings she’d get from her father. Her mother Adaia, on the other hand, had thought it quite amusing, seeing a born city elf climbing the tree like Adaia had during her time with her clan.  

 

“Hey,” said a familiar voice next to her.

 

“Shianni?” Blair asked. Up until her cousin had shown up, Blair hadn’t seen anyone else.

 

“Who else?” Shianni smiled. “It’s good to see you I suppose.”

 

“You suppose?” Blair asked, feigning a hurt expression. 

 

Shianni rolled her eyes and shrugged, smile still firmly in place. “Life out there has been good to you, hasn’t it? You’re respected, even among humans,” she said, a small frown creasing her brow. “Do you remember us? Where you came from, and what some of us still face every day?”

 

“I wish I could free you all…” Blair admitted. The fact was, Blair hoped to use any notoriety stopping the Blight would give her to better the lives of everyone who lived in the Alienages. 

 

“Really?” Shianni’s brows shot up. “Thank you but that will take time, more time than you can spare. Your actions have set things in the right direction, yet more is needed for a real change.” Shianni shook her head and put her hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “But do not dwell on that now. You have a great task ahead of you. I want you to take this,” she turned Blair’s hand palm up and placed a necklace in it before folding her fingers over the cool silver. “I think you should have it.” She pulled Blair into a hug. “Seeing you know gives me… hope. For all of us.” After kissing Blair on the cheek, Shianni stepped back and raised her hand, leaving Blair mumbling about her cousin blinding her with that stupid light.

 

* * *

 

Xolana blinked in confusion as she suddenly recognized she was back in the tower... and in the Harrowing Chamber, no less. She looked around for a few moments until her eyes fell on a person. 

 

A familiar face. She gasped in shock as she recognized the girl before her. “Dahlia…?! But... but that's impossible...”

 

The girl, Dahlia, was tall, very slender and pale with long blonde hair but had the darkest eyes, almost seeming out of place with everything else about her being so light in pigment. “Is it? Of all the things you've seen in this place, I’m the impossible?” She smiled gently. “Or is it the fact that you think I wouldn't want to speak to you?”

 

Xolana opened her mouth as if to say something but then shut it again firmly, looking uncertain. After a few long moments, she sighed. “I suppose seeing you here isn't, as you say, the strangest things to have happened to me...” her eyes turned downcast. “Even if I killed you.”

 

“No, Xolana,” Dahlia shook her head. “I was dead well before the knife hit my heart. Deep down, you know it.”

 

Xolana scoffed slightly. “Not everyone may think so. But... even after all that time, I remembered our promise. I hoped you still felt the same.” It seemed so long ago …

 

“In truth,” said Dahlia, pulling Xolana from her thoughts. “The only thing keeping me from going out in a blaze of glory was that promise. We drifted apart, yes. It happens, Xolana. But you have the chance to live a life good enough for the both of us. I know what happened still eats at you, but it’s time to put that aside. The path ahead of you is long and difficult. But I know you are strong enough to weather it. So stop looking for forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive. I only hope I could have kept the promise as you had, where our roles reversed.”

 

“I...” Xolana croaked, tearing up slightly. “I was afraid that... after we hadn't spoken for so long... the real you wouldn't have wanted me to remember. To do what I did. But I couldn't ask you anymore by the time it happened and I... I always wondered...”

 

To Xolana’s surprise, Dahlia pulled her into a hug. “Xolana, it’s okay. Just let it stay where it belongs. It’s the past, my friend,” the blonde chuckled quietly. “You really are the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met.”

 

Xolana hugged her tight as well and wiped at her tears with a sleeve. “I... thank you.”

 

Dahlia pulled back slightly. “Now, as much as I’d love to tease you about your redheaded bard, our time is short, and you still have a job to complete. So take this,” like her counterparts, Dahlia placed a Reflection pendant in Xolana's hand. “The only thing I’ll ask in return is that you remember me every so often. But let it be fond memories. Not guilty ones.”

 

Xolana looked at the pendant in her hand and marveled at its shimmer. “Dahlia... I promise I won't forget.”

 

Dahlia smiled. “Thank you. Now get going. The world isn't going to save itself. And... maybe we'll see each other again sometime.”

 

Xolana nodded and wiped away the last of the moisture in her eyes. “I would like that. I will look for you in the Fade.”

 

“I'll do the same. Now go!” Dahlia chuckled waving Xolana away. “Before I chase you off with a feather duster like Wynne used to.”

 

Xolana managed to crack a smile again. “Aye, ma'am!” She closed her eyes against the burning white light and focused on determining the difference between memory and reality again. Before long, she was back where she was standing just a few minutes before. Conrí was standing where he had been, hand around the pendant on his neck. Xolana noticed that everyone around them seemed to have been stopped in their tracks and now had a new amulet. She looked down at the one in her hand as well and stroked over the surface lightly with her thumb one last time before putting it on.

 

“I, uh...” Conrí’s voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat. “I think we should take a minute.”

 

“Are you... ok?” Xolana asked carefully. 

 

“The truth is.... I don't know,” Conrí said after a long moment.

 

Xolana looked around and saw that everyone seemed to be teared up and shaken. “Perhaps everyone needs a moment to gather themselves...”

 

“Yeah I...” Conrí nodded vaguely. “I think we just need time... to wrap our heads around it, you know?”

 

Xolana nodded slowly. “I take it you also saw someone from your past.”

 

The twins were silent for a long moment before Erin finally piped up. “...We saw our parents.”

 

Xolana flinched. “I... see.”

 

Tristan shook his head. “Jowan... even in spirit form, you're still such a dweeb.”   


Xolana’s eyes widened slightly. “You saw Jowan?”

 

“Yeah. He's not dead unless something stupid happened at Redcliffe. So it’s not necessarily the dead we meet here... but what they are exactly... I don't have a clue.”

 

Xolana looked into the distance thoughtfully, having been pretty sure that she was speaking to Dahlia's spirit, not some strange projection.

 

Conrí shook his head. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I wasn't talking to two spirits pretending to be my parents. There are some things you can't fake,” he awkwardly brushed his beard. “Even in death she lectures me about my facial hair…” He flipped his pendant over to look at the mirrored side. He jumped slightly when he saw his father’s face over his shoulder. He glanced over, not seeing anyone. He frowned and looked back at the pendent. His father had disappeared and been replaced by his mother at the opposite shoulder. Her smile was familiar and encouraging. Reflection. Conrí mused, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

 

Xolana looked around at the others. “Is everyone else ok?”

 

“Getting there,” Serena grunted before slapping her cheeks. “Come on Aeducan, get it together...” she grumbled.

 

* * *

 

Once everyone was able to continue, the group moved past the forked hallway into the next room. The floor was shrouded in a dark swirling mist. “Be cautious,” Wynne advised. “There is hostile magic here.”

 

Just as the sentence left her lips almost a dozen figures rose from the mist and began to take shape. What the mist formed made the entire group freeze. Their new foes… Were themselves.

 

But not as they were at the moment. Alistair stood across from an older, a grim faced version of himself in Knight-Commander plate. He swallowed as his doppelganger drew a Sword of Mercy from his back. 

 

Leliana’s duplicate was wearing this very extravagant armor, her face painted like she used to when she was with Marjolaine. The smirk on the woman’s face was condescending and cruel. Did I really look that arrogant? Leliana wondered as both she and her clone drew their bows. 

 

Zevran faced a cold-faced version of himself, wearing the armor of a Crow Guildmaster. Tira’s clone was wearing a hood, the only thing visible from her face was her eyes, cruel slits which looked more at home on a viper than on the Dalish. 

 

Blair’s duplicate was wearing silks, looking like a favored servant. Unlike the other clones, however, who looked arrogant or cruel, Blair’s looked broken. In fact, it wasn’t until Leliana’s clone shot Blair’s a warning glare that Blair’s doppelganger drew her daggers. 

 

Xolana was horrified by her clone. The middle aged woman had deep scars down her arms from using so much blood magic and she wore rough robes made of pelts and held together with bones.

 

Serena’s, in stark contrast to the mage, was dressed like a queen, carrying a huge, ornate maul. What bothered Serena most, however, was the fact her duplicate’s armor was so decorative it was riddled with obvious structural weaknesses.

 

Garik looked like an outright thug, his face heavily scarred and his armor bloodstained. The clone seemed to spit towards Garik and draw its blades.

 

Tristan’s doppelganger, to his disgust, was wearing the same robes as an Imperial magister. He understood what these things were now. The ethereal enemies represented what their opposites didn’t want to be.

 

And could very easily become. 

 

Wynne recognized her clone right away as an abomination. But unlike those creatures in the tower, Wynne’s clone still looked mostly like her. The only difference was the hellish blue glow in her eyes and the lyrium vein-like cracks in her face. 

 

Conrí and Erin, to their immense disdain, looked exactly like who Howe said they were. Orlesian silks, fancy but functional weapons, face paint, arrogant expressions of superiority. Conrí grit his teeth when he realized he was wearing the same purple doublet as Howe the night of his betrayal. Both held a slim Orlesian short sword in one hand and a wickedly curved dagger in the other. 

 

“Never thought I’d say ‘I’m going to kill myself,’ and have it mean something like this context,” Garik sneered, his humor long gone. 

 

“We had to face our pasts,” Conrí said, drawing his axe. “Now it seems we have to face ourselves.”

 

There was a long moment of stillness and silence that was broken only when Conrí  and Erin gave berserk roars, and charged.

 


	31. Sacred Ashes, False Idols

“Coward,” Conrí’s clone hissed as it collided with the real thing. “You bark about avenging your family, but this is a lie!”

 

“Fuck you!” Conrí snarled, shoving his doppelgänger back. 

 

Not far away, Erin swiped at her double, growling as it dodged every strike. “You’re worthless!” the clone sneered. “Can’t do a damn thing without big brother or father there to help you!”

 

“Shut up, you bitch!” Erin barked, swinging her family sword.

  
“Aw, what’s the matter?” Erin’s clone hissed, dodging to the side. “Do you need papa to fight me for you?” Erin screamed in rage and threw herself at the demon wearing her face. 

 

“You’re weak, you know,” Blair’s dour clone mumbled. “Still an underling to a shemlen.”

 

“I’m not the weak one here,” Blair growled, stabbing at the shade. “It is not weakness to follow those you respect.”

 

Tira drew her swords and dodged the spectral arrows fired by her double. Since the shade was using a shortbow, it had a better rate off fire than Tira herself had with her longbow. 

 

“You betray everything you’ve known to fight a war for those who would enslave you yet again,” Tira’s spectral duplicate snarled in a raspy, almost snake-like voice. “Perhaps I should rid you of them…” the shade turned her bow to aim at Leliana, who was fighting dagger to dagger with her clone. Just before it could loose another shot, however, it grunted and looked down. In the gap between its breast and back piece of rough hide armor was a small dagger.   
  
Tira lowered her hand from the throw. “Nobody hurts my friends…” she said darkly. 

 

The double fell to its knees, its hood slipping off. Tira almost recoiled as she saw it face. Gone were the vallaslin dedicated to Mythal and were replaced by those of Fen’Harel. Even in the light, the double’s eyes had an eerie, poisonous yellow glow. “Take a long look, seth’lin… this… this is what you will become!” with this final curse, the shade faded, leaving Tira’s belt knife to drop to the floor. 

  


Alistair was still fighting his own attacker, the templar spectre shouting curses and sneering that Alistair had abandoned his duty. He accused him of going with the Grey Wardens not for the chance to do good in the world, but simply to get out of the monotony of Chantry life, just to get a taste of adventure rather than do the task the Maker had appointed him. Alistair, face white with rage, fought on regardless of the thing’s insults.

 

Wynne’s opponent was ominously silent, as though knowing its appearance, with the glowing blue eyes and lyrium like cracks in her face was enough to unnerve the elder mage. Wynne’s face was set in a grim scowl, blocking her copy’s attacks and launching her own. 

 

A pair of lightning bolts met between Xolana and her doppelgänger. “Go on, just a tiny little cut and nothing can hurt you anymore...” the clone hissed. “You know you're just a scared little girl hiding behind that magic... just tap into your true power and that girl will disappear forever!”

 

“Get bent!” Xolana growled, increasing the force of her attack. 

 

Serena ducked a heavy blow from her double’s maul, strafing to the side and keeping the Aeducan shield between her and the clone. “Stop running, idiot!” the clone sneered. “Trian and Gorim aren’t here to take the fall for you anymore! I’m gonna do our dear baby brother’s work for him! Something you were too stupid to see!”

 

Serena dodged to the side of another vertical blow and swung her axe just as the head hit the stone. The heavy steel bit splintered the haft of the ornate maul at the weak point about three quarters the way to the head. Before the clone could react, Serena flipped her axe around and drove the back spike into the chest of her double’s ornamental armor. The metal cracked and spectral blood began pouring out. The double staggered back, dropping the useless haft and trying to stem the blood flow. “I’m not the idiot wandering around with tits hammered into my armor,” the dwarf sneered, bringing the bit of her axe down on her clone’s collarbone. 

 

“You and the princess?” Garik’s double snickered cruelly. “There’s a laugh. Why would she even contemplate a duster like you?” It snorted. “Even Sig got tired of you after a while.”  
  
Garik grimaced and yanked his axe from his belt and tossed it at his double. While the clone was busy dodging the thrown weapon, Garik slipped behind his duplicate and wrapped a sturdy arm around its neck. “May be nothing but a duster,” he said, before driving the tip of his dagger up into the soft skin under the jaw of the double. “But at least I have a fucking personality.” Garik’s dagger pinned the double’s mouth shut so it couldn’t retort and faded quickly. 

 

Tristan and his clone were duelling with their staves. “Magisters are free... Magisters rule!” the clone barked. “You know it is right... you know you want to watch them all cower before you!”

 

“Oh, enough!” Tristan snarled, lashing out with a fireball, catching his clone, Wynne’s and Alistair’s doubles in the blast along with Conrí. 

 

Conrí bared his teeth under his helm but ignored the elf for the moment.

 

“Weakling,” the double spat, its face contorted in malicious mockery. ”What good do tears and regret do? Does such bring them back? Avenge their murders? Huh, I suppose that’s the best a weakling like you can do about it...”

 

“SHUT UP!” Conrí bellowed as he charged straight at the doppelgänger like a bull. The false Conrí, caught a little off guard by the ferocity of the attack, tried to dodge aside again, but the real Conrí’s fury lent his feet wings, closing ground too quickly. Out of desperation, the fake stabbed at the shoulder of the Warden’s sword arm, but even through eyes misted red with battle lust, Conrí saw it coming. His heavy gauntlet came up, and the sabre bounced off it. His own stroke was far more effective, and far more brutal. The Dalish axe came down on the juncture between shoulder and neck, smashing into the spectre’s collarbone with a meaty thud, shattering ribs and tearing through organs, all but cleaving the spirit in two from shoulder to hip. As Conrí’s doppelgänger fell to its knees, mouthing words and making faint, unintelligible noises out of shock, the real thing yanked the axe from its purchase and lashed out with an armored boot. The silverite greave smashed into the double’s neck, and a sickening crack echoed through the hall. 

 

As the clone faded, Conrí threw back his head and gave a wordless roar of rage. “Is this what you want?!” he bellowed at the ceiling. “Digging at wounds of the past and present?! Is suffering them once not enough for you?!” Greeted with only silence, Conrí snarled and slammed the bit of his axe into the floor, splintering stone and embedding Red Steel into the ruined tile. For a long minute, Conrí stood there, shaking almost unnoticeably. When he finally moved again, it was to straighten his back and wrench the axe from the stone. He turned back to the group, grim mask back in place. “Pull that shit again, Surana, and I will kick the living shit out of you,” Conrí growled as he swept soot from his bracer.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, my lord,” Tristan sneered, not at all intimidated by the warrior’s demeanor. “Can’t take the heat?”

 

“How many times must I tell you to stop calling me that?” Conrí rolled his eyes as he examined his blade for any damage.

 

“Why should I do anything you say, shem?” Tristan barked. “You look down on me like every other human lord. An elf and a mage? To all of your kind, I should have been strung up ages ago.”

 

“I don’t have a problem with you being an elf or a mage. I have no issue with Tira or Blair and when she’s not actively causing trouble, I have no issue with Morrigan. My issue with you, Surana, is your attitude,” returning the axe to the sling on his back, the warrior turned back to the mage. “You cause problems with every statement you make, and it’s getting old fast. I think I’ve put up with it for long enough.”

 

“Put up with?” Tristan scoffed. “What would a spoiled brat like you know about sacrifices.” This was the wrong thing to say as Erin started forward, whether to hold Conrí back or to hold Tristan down, no one knew.

 

“Spoiled?” Conrí asked, his tone deadly. “Since the time I’ve been able to hold a sword, I’ve had to fight. My family doesn’t-, didn’t tolerate a spoiled child. My father broke my arm during my training. Yeah, we both got a good tongue lashing from my mother, but as soon as I could move my arm properly again, I was back in the training ring, working my ass off to get better. I killed my first man, a bandit stalking a village not far from Highever Castle, at seventeen. I have been busted open, black-eyed, I have sweat gallons and I have bled buckets. And all the while, you’ve been Irving’s star pupil, completely safe from the Templars. I’m not the spoiled one here, Surana. Maker forbid you do what I, a mundane human, says during combat. And Andraste faints whenever I ask you to do your share of the chores. Since orders seemed to make so little difference for you, I’ll make this plain; the next time one of us is caught in one of your carelessly thrown spells, Surana, the very next time, I’m gonna kick your teeth so far down your throat you can chew your own ass out for pissing me off.” Conrí shoved past the mage.

 

Before Tristan could do more than scowl, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Xolana glared at the elf, which surprised him since she had stayed out of his spats with Conrí up until then. “What in the Void is the matter with you?!” Xolana demanded. “Here of all places and now of all times? You saw Jowan here, and had to see yourself as a magister, I get that! We’re all on edge! He had to see his dead parents! And yet you keep poking the bear! I can’t keep you out of trouble forever, and before you say anything, yes I have smoothed over the waves for you. But believe me, I’m done! You’re a full-fledged Grey Warden! Part of a military organization! He’s your Commander, Tristan. Any other would have already asked for your head on a spike for much lesser insubordinations. The fact that he’s waited until now to give you the ultimatum shows how much restraint, and faith in you, he has. Next time you start a fight, I’m not sticking up for you. Get it through your head that Irving can’t bail you out anymore.” With one final glare, Xolana turned and followed the others out of the chamber, leaving a stunned and embarrassed mage trailing slowly after them. 

 

The group jumped out of their skin as they entered the next room, and a feminine voice spoke; though her voice was little louder than a whisper, it sounded as loud to them all as if she were speaking in their ears.

 

“Andraste loved Her disciples as she loved the Maker. As we have faith in the Maker, so must we have faith in our friends.”

 

“That sounds a little more hopeful than usual,” Conrí commented, before looking ahead and groaning. “I stand corrected.” Alistair, Leliana and Xolana joined him, all of them seeing for themselves the reason for his consternation. A vast crevasse lay in the centre of the floor, ringed around the edges by a number of oblong stone tiles. There was no obvious way to get across, no pulley or lever to lower a rope or bridge, and even a fool could see that trying to jump the chasm to reach the door on the other side was suicide, plain and simple.

 

“How on earth do we get past this?” Erin asked incredulously. 

 

Alistair was moving around, and Leliana began to automatically check for traps or triggers they could use. “I’m not sure… maybe if we…” Alistair’s foot came down on one of the broken stones ringing the edge of the chasm and he started in shock as a teeth-rattling, grinding noise sounded out, and a section of bridge appeared out of thin air, hazy and translucent, suspended in the void.

 

“Alistair, you’re a genius,” Xolana declared, causing the templar to flush and beam at the compliment. “So, if we step on these stones…” she pressed down with her foot, and the section of bridge became more solid. Leliana placed her own foot down and the bridge piece became completely solid. They stared uneasily at the bridge piece before them; it seemed solid enough but they couldn’t be certain if it would take their weight.

 

“We need to make sure it’s safe before we can try and complete the bridge,” Alistair remarked.

 

Before anyone could say anything, Koun bound over to the piece. “Koun, what are you doing?” Conrí asked incredulously. The mabari merely barked and sat down firmly on the bridge piece. “Are you sure? We don’t know what will happen when those three move. And…” he looked into the chasm. “I can’t see the bottom.” Koun huffed and laid down. Conrí sighed. “Is it a compliment to you or an insult to me that a mabari has more faith than I do…” Koun whined but didn’t move. “Alright, old boy. That will be your job.” Koun barked happily. 

  


“You did notice his, Kiba and Tsume’s doubles didn’t last long,” Blair pointed out.

 

Tira smiled sadly and scratched Tsume’s ears. “What do dogs and wolves have to doubt about themselves?” She kneeled down and gave Tsume a long, well-deserved hug. 

 

“Alright, let’s get this done,” Erin said, moving to another tile. 

 

Slowly but surely, the spectral bridge was built. When the final tile was in place, Koun, Kiba and Tsume all walked across completely at ease. When everyone followed, the canine’s were rewarded for their courage with unabashed affection, even promises of treats from Xolana. They continued on into the next room which was far larger than any they had seen in the temple.

 

“Eesh...” Garik rolled his shoulders. “Haven't felt this much lyrium in one place for quite a while... last time was during a trip into the Deep Roads to pick up smuggled goods for Beraht. I grabbed the goods and left as quickly as my feet would carry me. This amount of lyrium could cause some pretty weird shit“

 

Xolana looked around uncomfortably, shuddering a bit. “Yeah...” she agreed. “But that's not the only thing that feels strange about this place...”

 

Leliana caught a glimpse of a large, ornate urn as she was looking ahead. “Is that...?” she gasped quietly. “It is… that’s the Urn of Sacred Ashes!”

 

“On the other side of a wall of fire,” Tira sighed, gazing at this new hazard. “You humans are consistent, I’ll give you that.”

 

“That... well,” Wynne mumbled, prepared to argue but quickly realized that she couldn't really, since Tira was right in a strange way. The Temple of Sacred Ashes’ final trial was a wall of magical flame. It was fitting in a macabre sort of way.

 

“So... what exactly are we supposed to do to get past that?” Zevran asked, speaking what the others had all been thinking.

 

Conrí approached a small altar near the flames. He read the inscription passively. When what he read sank in, he gave it another look, brow furrowing in incredulity. One word escaped his lips as the magnitude hit him. “Balls...”

 

“I don't think that's appropriate here, dear brother,” Erin snarked. Conrí sent her a flat look and gestured to the stone slab. Erin approached and read it aloud. “Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar, humble yourself before the Maker and be born anew in his sight.” As the young woman read her voice rose in pitch slightly. Once finished, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Balls,” she agreed. 

 

Xolana, having heard it be read out loud, stammered out. “Does that... mean what I think it means?”

 

“Oh Void no,” Tristan barked. “On your own, the lot of you.”

 

Conrí sighed and started unstrapping his armor. “The things I’m willing to do…”

 

Leliana followed suit with no hesitation. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,” she prayed. “In their blood the Maker's will is written.”

 

“We can never get undressed under happy circumstances, can we?” Zevran lamented as he slowly and hesitantly started undressing too, eyeing the fire skeptically.

 

“First comment about dwarves not having the reach needed, I’m feeding you to a Bronto,” Garik grumbled as he began pulling off his armor.

 

“Zevran, do me a favor,” Serena sighed as she pulled off her breast plate. “And keep your eyes and hands to yourself.”

 

“Really?” Tristan groaned. “We're about to commit mass suicide by walking through FIRE and you're worried about a perverted Antivan assassin eyeing you up!? Talk about priorities.”

 

Xolana gave Tristan an irritated push as she worked on pulling her own armor and clothes off. “Shut it Surana and undress already. If our Maker-experts believe this is what it takes... I'll trust them.”

 

“Maker’s saggy left one… fine…” Tristan grumbled and followed Xolana’s lead.

 

Wynne meanwhile was praying fervently no one made a comment about not wanting to see the naked grandma. Or worse, Zevran starting again on her ‘magical bosom.’ 

 

Tira, already out of her much simpler armor, commented as she helped Erin remove her chest plate, “I might be stepping over the line here, but are we certain Andraste wasn't just a sadistic pervert?”

 

“I'm wondering the same right now,” Blair crossed her arms over her naked chest, like her Dalish counterpart more at ease with nakedness than the rest. A study in contrast, Alistair was keeping his eyes firmly away from everyone, especially the women. 

 

Xolana gulped heavily and stepped up to stand next to Conrí, Leliana and the others who were already undressed. “So... are we really doing this?”

 

“You have a better idea?” Conrí asked warily. Xolana opened and then closed her mouth uselessly. After a moment, she gulped again. Everyone else slowly finished getting undressed and joined up in the line before the fire. “I'll go first,” Conrí offered. “If I burst into flames... well, then don't follow, dumbasses...”

 

“So... what are we waiting for?” Tristan asked, exasperated and anxious to get this over with.

 

“Well it was good to know you all,” Alistair whined. 

 

Conrí stepped up to the flames. He hesitantly lifted a hand and brought it slowly to the fire. When his arm passed through with only a warm feeling and a tingle, he smiled slightly. “Come on,” he said, stepping into the fire. Leliana was the first to follow, followed not too long after by the stunned but confident Alistair and Xolana, leading eventually to everyone walking confidently through. The last of whom were the dwarves and Tristan, all extremely unsure about this whole situation. Once through the fire, the group noticed their wounds were healed and their skin felt as clean as if they'd just had a long hot bath. Koun, Kiba and Tsume shook themselves, the three canines not enjoying the feeling of being scoured clean.

 

Xolana stared and stammered in wonderment. “That... this.... what... I..?

 

“Amazing,” Wynne breathed. “A healing and a cleansing spell in the middle of a flame…”

 

“You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet,” said a familiar voice. The guardian seemed to just appear behind the group, smiling warmly. “You have walked the path of Andraste, and like her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrims. Approach the Sacred Ashes.” Once again, the Guardian vanished. 

 

“I was sort of expecting applause,” said Zevran after a long moment. “Where is our applause?”

 

“Applause after we get dressed,” Conrí grumbled, yanking on his trousers. He glanced up when he noticed Leliana hadn’t already taken her own clothing.

 

The bard was standing where he had left her, eyes fixed on the urn. “That... it's her…”

 

Erin, in the midst of pulling on her own clothes, glanced at the bard. “Leli? Might be a good idea to get dressed first.”

 

Leliana shook herself out of it and nodded. “Yes, of course,” she agreed reluctantly, hurrying to get dressed along with everyone else. “You're right.”

 

Conrí approached the urn when he had his clothes and most of his under armor on. “I admit...” he said quietly. “I didn't think it was real.” There were some soft murmurs of agreement behind him. He lifted the lid off the urn and took a pinch. The texture was so fine and the ashes felt warm, as if just taken off the pyre barely an hour ago. He carefully placed the ashes a small leather pouch. “Alright. Everyone who came this far, take a pinch. A small one.” Everyone did as told, one by one; some more hesitantly than others.

 

“I'm not sure what exactly I imagined, but I'm not sure this was it,” Xolana said quietly whilst taking her pinch. Leliana was beside her, praying quietly, only lips moving and eyes sparkling with emotions.

 

“If you need to, take a moment,” Conrí said, pulling on his chest plate. “Then we had best be going.”

 

Tira shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. “Could we... Leave the dead woman be now?” she asked, sounding uncertain.

 

“Yes... we had better go,” Leliana agreed, somewhat reluctantly. 

 

“I would thank the Maker,” Zevran muttered. “But that does seem rather macabre given the circumstances, no?”

 

Tristan eyed his fellow elf. “Hey I'm just as skeptical as the next guy but maybe we should save this talk for once we're out of here at least.”

 

“Agreed,” said Xolana, clearly still unsure what to think, but at the very least not interested in open blasphemy in front of what might truly be the remains of the Maker's bride - if the stories really could be believed.

 

“If we're ready, let's get back to the others. I get the feeling Kolgrim won't be too pleased,” Conrí announced before a look of recognition went over his face. “Oh, and that reminds me,” he pulled a small vial from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Wynne. “I understand dragon blood is a powerful reagent. May as well make use of it.”

 

Wynne looked hesitantly to the vial for a few moments before taking it with a meaningful look to Conrí. “I had been wondering what exactly you were planning, but I should have known not to worry,” she said, placing the vial in a cushioned pocket in her robe. 

 

“This is a tomb, Wynne,” Conrí said quietly. “I may be a pragmatist, but even I draw the line at desecrating a burial place.”

 

Wynne smiled slightly. “You're a good man, Conrí. A shame it took me so long to see it,” she turned to follow the others out of the temple. Tsume was already whining and scratching lightly at the door out, desperate to return to the open air and out of this stifling holier-than-thou atmosphere. And likely to find a pile of dirt to roll in and get the clean feeling off her fur.

 

Conrí turned to Xolana as they walked. “Well, you know who we saw in here, Amell,” he said quietly. “Do you mind me asking who you saw?”

 

Xolana ducked her head slightly. “It’s not something I like to remember… but I think I do owe you that since I know who you met…”

 

Xolana went on to explain about Dahlia. Xolana and Dahlia had arrived at the circle around the same time and became fast friends. As they grew older, however, they drifted apart, not least because Xolana was far more talented at magic and was leaving Dahlia behind. Add to that the fact Xolana became better friends with Tristan and Jowan… Before this, however, Xolana and Dahlia had promised each other something when they first learned what the Tranquil are. Should either of them ever be made Tranquil, the other would kill them. 

 

Although they hadn't been close for years by the time the girl came to be made tranquil, Xolana never forgot. The very first night after the Rite was completed, Xolana snuck to the girl’s room and killed her painlessly in her sleep. Xolana prayed that Dahlia didn't suffer much, and no one ever found out who committed the deed. Xolana never told even Tristan or Jowan.

 

“I…” Tristan swallowed, remembering the day in question. The whole tower had been in an uproar. Dahlia wasn’t the most talented but she was skilled enough that a Harrowing may well have proven successful, and she’d made no bones about her belief in the Aequitarian way of thinking. Were it not for Wynne and Irving’s intervention, the mages may well have done something foolish. But something had changed in Xolana that day. She refused anymore lessons from Irving, Tristan now guessing that she partially blamed him for Dahlia’s Tranquility. It wasn’t unreasonable, since Irving had signed off on the Rite.

 

Conrí, meanwhile had said nothing through the entire thing. He merely put a hand on Xolana’s shoulder. When the mage looked to the warrior, there was no pity or judgment, only understanding.

 

“That is utterly barbaric!” Tira protested, appalled at what she had heard. “Robbing a person of everything that makes them who they are, and for what reason?! They might be dangerous or foolish enough to make a deal with a demon?!”  
  
“It keeps them from harming others in the tower and outside it, Tira,” Alistair told her, trying to calm the Dalish elf. 

 

“Death would be kinder!” Tira snapped. “And would accomplish the same thing. The more I hear of your Circles the more I hate it! Is it not bad enough that your mages are caged and leashed or killed at the smallest transgression?! You have to go so far as to turn a person into a mindless, soulless drone who exists only to serve the whims of the Chantry! No better than slaves!”

 

“The Tranquil aren’t slaves!” Wynne protested. 

 

“No?” Tira growled. Most were surprised by this change in demeanor from the normally calm and even tempered Dalish. “Are they paid for these wondrous things they create? Have they the freedom to choose where to go or what to do? No. You’ve been wearing the collar so long, Wynne, that you cannot see it for what it is. Keepers don’t need to be leashed and clans go generations, and many of them, without having their keeper fall to temptation!”

 

“And what happens when they do?” Wynne asked archly.

 

“Then it’s clan’s responsibility to hunt down and kill their Keeper,” Tira snapped. “More of my clan have fallen prey to your templars than anything from the Beyond. I used to think they were zealots who didn’t represent the whole of their order and the Chantry. Now, I am not so sure, if this is what both are willing to do to those they are supposed to protect.” Without another word Tira turned on her heel and stormed away.   
  
“Nice going, Wynne,” Erin droned, quickening her step to catch her lover. 

 

When Erin finally caught up with the Dalish Elf, she was sitting in the room that once housed the riddle Spirits. She was sitting against one wall, her knees tucked against her chest with one arm wrapped around them. The other hand was running through Tsume’s fur. Erin wordlessly sat down on Tira’s other side. They sat there for a long moment, before Tira leaned into Erin’s shoulder. “Your double really bothered you, I see.”

 

Tira gave a sound of affirmation. “It was unnerving seeing what I could become.”

 

“What do you mean?” Erin asked.

 

“It has to do with being a Ranger,” Tira explained. “To fully understand and call on creatures of the wilds, you have to accept the primal side of yourself. Embrace it. It is rare, but sometimes… sometimes the feral side takes over, and the ranger becomes little more than a rabid beast. Marethari was hesitant at first to teach me the ways of the Ranger, with the risks I could potentially pose to the clan, but I eventually wore her down. See, an abomination is dangerous but solitary. Most aren’t smart enough to rip the Veil and summon more demons. But a Feral Ranger? Any fanged, clawed and hungry thing could hear their call. A Ranger doesn’t control an animal but an animal will listen to a Ranger’s commands if they’re strong enough in the art. Tsume for example, listens to me, but not because I have direct control of her. I think she sees me as her alpha or at least higher up in the pack than she is. There’s a bond between me and any animal I have ever called. It’s not easy to explain.”

 

“It sounds like magic,” Erin contemplated.

  
“It is, sort of,” Tira nodded. “Not like the sort a mage uses. In fact, mages have a hard time even learning the basics of being a Ranger. As much as the Alistair and Wynne will try and deny it, claiming magic is just manipulating the powers of the Beyond, almost everyone is capable of some form of magic or another. I mean, look at Leliana. She sings during combat and it does more than just boost our spirits. On some level her songs affect us or our enemies in ways beyond just morale. Again, it is difficult to explain.”

 

“I understand,” Erin assured her lover. “Like how Zevran and Garik can almost vanish in the shadows even wearing the most gaudy of armor.”

 

“Yes, exactly,” Tira smiled, pleased she had been able to convey her thoughts. 

 

“Templars work in a similar way, no?” Erin asked, wary of shifting Tira’s mood.

 

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Tira nodded, rather than her mood souring, she became contemplative. “Rather than drawing on the Beyond to shape reality, their powers seem to reinforce reality, making the world less mutable and… making this world harder to manipulate so the Beyond has no place to gain a foothold and the magic disperses. Yes, I see it now. A useful skill, if far too easily abused.”

 

“I was considering bullying Alistair into teaching me some of the skills he uses,” Erin told Tira. “Would it be a problem?”

 

“The abilities are just a tool,” Tira waved aside her love’s concerns. “Provided you don’t start spitting Chantry dogma at me or oppressing the mages with us, I see no problem in learning.” Tira smiled and kissed Erin softly. “Thanks for coming to talk with me. I suppose I better apologize to Wynne, when I see her. I was rather rude.”

 

“No, you were right,” Erin shook her head. “The Rite of Tranquility is barbaric and no mercy. I’d sooner be dead than Tranquil.”

 

The rest of the group caught up soon after, and they continued to the antechamber where Shale, Sten and Morrigan were waiting. “So, are the Wardens done digging for the burnt remains of their prophet?” Shale asked, irritable as always. 

 

“Aye,” Conrí grunted. “Best prepare for a fight. I have a feeling Kolgrim and his people won’t be too happy with us.”

 

Conrí’s prediction proved to be an accurate one. Kolgrim strode towards the group, a disappointed scowl on his face. “You return, but the deed is not--” the zealot was cut off as Conrí’s boot found his chest sending him sprawling down the hill.  


“Now!” Conrí roared, drawing his axe and charging into the nearest band of warriors. They managed to hold their own through a brief skirmish before a pair of fireballs were launched from near the entrance. “Down!” Conrí ducked his head and turned his back to the resulting explosion. Alistair and Serena quickly kneeled and raised their shields to block any debris while mages ducked behind the warriors and the rogues took shelter behind the numerous broken pillars. Conrí looked towards the mouth of the cave to see a pair of cultist mages with flames lapping at their arms. Conrí turned to Leliana and Tira. “Kill the Mages,” he said tersely. 

 

Leliana lashed out as a warrior rounded the pillar, stabbing him in the chest. Moving around the pillar, she dove between another pair, slashing slashing their throats in the idle of her dive. She tucked and rolled, before tossing her daggers into the chests of another pair. With her melee weapons gone, she drew her bow and shot another in the throat. Showing off her agility, Leliana used the crumpling body as a springboard. She landed on the crumbled pillar, stilling for the first time since leaving cover. “The righteous stand before the darkness,” she whispered as she drew an arrow back. “And the Maker shall guide their hand.” After sighting briefly she angled her bow and loosed her arrow. Not far from her on another splintered pillar, Tira did the same, though without prayers to the Maker. Both arrows struck their targets, taking both of them out of the fight.  
  
Serena stood back to back with Morrigan and Garik. “Steady…” she whispered before using the edge of her shield to deter an incoming blade, bashing the sword’s owner in the chest and following with a strike to the neck. Morrigan was using her staff to push a few warriors back, not able to kill with the simple wood weapon, but the strikes hurt and kept the warriors on the defensive. Garik locked up with a rogue before ducking a strike from a reaver. Swinging both blades, one right after the other, he slashed them both across the chest before stabbing a third through the gut with both daggers.

 

Serena pivoted on her back foot and used the edge of her shield to break the neck of an assassin looking to slip a dagger between her ribs. “Hey, Mahariel!” she called, a bloody grin on her face. “Two already!”  
  
“I’m on seventeen!” Tira shot back, not even glancing back as she launched bolt after bolt into the charging cultists.  
  
“What?!” Serena grit her teeth as Shale hurled a boulder into a large group of cultists. “I won’t have some pointy eared pipe cleaner outscoring me!”

  
Morrigan meanwhile had trapped a warrior with her staff and seared a rune onto the back of his head before shoving him towards his fellows. The poor punch drunk fool stumbled into a cluster of his comrades and exploded violently. The witch laughed unpleasantly before dropping her staff and running at other group, joined by Tristan. Mid charge, they rolled forward onto their hands and sprang into the air, transforming into a pair of giant spiders. Before their opponents could process this, several were fatally mauled by the giant arachnids.  
  
Kolgrim finally got back to his feet. With a snarl, he grabbed the dragon horn at his hip and sounded it, calling ‘Andraste’ now that most of his followers were dead. Conrí and the others looked up to see the dragon circling above them.

 

The dragon swooped down and burned a long strip of the ground, melting snow and ice while turning much of the rock blood red from the heat. Conrí grit his teeth and started moving towards where the Dragon was headed. Nearby were the few remaining cultists on the mountaintop. He turned to Sten, Serena, Erin and Alistair. “Strike when she comes for me!” he ordered. They nodded, splitting off from him.

 

The dragon landed, trampling several cultists and batting aside more. She stopped before Conrígrowling quietly. Conrí didn’t move, his axe at the ready. The dragon snapped at the warrior, only to have him pivot on his heel and slash with his axe. Before the dragon could do more than growl, an arrow struck its face.  
  
Leliana was standing atop more yet crumbling stonework, firing arrows, barely having to aim at such a large target. “Face me, Creature!” she crowed.

 

“Leliana!” Conrí cried out, seeing the muscles in the dragon’s tail tense and lash out, splinting the stone, sending Tristan flying, changing back in midflight. Leliana nimbly flipped off and ran alongside the dragon, peppering it with arrows as Tira did the same on its other flank. The elven mage, however, hit the ground hard and he couldn’t stop himself rolling off the cliff. He struggled futilely to pull himself up, but with the added weight of his armor and the pain in his ribs where he’d been struck, he was unable to do more than dangle off the side of the world. Just when he was certain his grip would fail, Conrí slid to a stop at the cliff face and grabbed Tristan’s arm. “I already told you,” Conrí growled. “You don’t have permission to die yet.” He jerked the mage up from the lip with frightening ease and tossed him into the snow. “Get to Morrigan and Xolana. It looks like they’re cooking something up.”  
  
Erin charged the dragon’s flank while the beast was distracted with the archers and leaped up, driving her sword into the unprotected side of the dragon’s torso. The dragon roared in pain and rage, preparing to rip apart the warrior when it spotted the trio of mages gathering power in their hands. Being a cunning creature, the dragon knew magic was dangerous to even her.  
  
Morrigan channeled lightning into her palms as Tristan and Xolana did the same. “Let us end this…” the witch hissed as she and her fellows spun and launched their lighting spells, striking the dragon in the face as it snapped out to attack. The dragon reared back as electricity arced through its body, the massive beast flailing a bit before dropping to the ground and splintering the stone steps beneath it. 

 

Conrí approached the fallen creature slowly, axe in hand. Seeing that the beast was still breathing, even if its inhalations were labored, he hefted his axe. “NO!” Kolgrim screamed, beginning to charge, but was struck by Erin’s thrown dagger in the leg. He crumpled to the ground screaming in agony as the sharp steel embedded itself into his thigh. Conrí, wasting no more time, raised his axe and then brought it down on the back of the dragon’s skull, issuing a spray of blood. The beast ceased to move. “No! Andraste!” Kolgrim shouted, sounding much like a child who’d lost a favored pet. “HERETIC! YOU WILL DIE HERE!” he wrenched the knife out and charged.

 

But Conrí was ready. He ducked the swing of Kolgrim’s own axe and drove a fist into the reaver’s gut so hard, the armor offered no protection. Kolgrim crumpled again, hacking blood all over the stone. Anyone with medical knowledge knew instantly, Conrí had ruptured something vital. But the warrior wasn’t done. Conrí grit his teeth again and grabbed the back of Kolgrim’s neck armor and belt before hoisting him over his head with a roar not unlike the dragon he’d just finished. After moment, Kolgrim was dropped as Conrí kneeled and the reaver’s spine slammed into the armored thigh and knee of Conrí, snapping it like dry kindling. Conrí gave a disgusted sound as he shoved Kolgrim’s corpse off.  
  
Everyone was silent for a long moment. They’d just slain a dragon and much of those who worshipped the beast. The silence was interrupted perfectly by the resident Antivan assassin. “We… are ridiculously awesome.”

 

* * *

 

The group used a recently opened passage to bypass much of the cave system and made their way back to the entrance hall. Genitivi tried to rush forward to greet them though was held back by is injuries. “You’re back! You’ve been gone for quite a while. I was beginning to get worried. So, did you find it?”

 

“Aye,” Conrí held up the small pouch holding Eamon’s share of the ashes. 

 

“Is that… oh there’s some dust on… no, that’s not dust… oh, Maker…” Genitivi swallowed hard. A learned man, yet still devout, he almost began babbling about not being worthy before catching himself. “What… what was it like?”

 

“Arduous,” Conrí admitted. “There are tests, physical, mental and spiritual alike.” 

 

“Tests…?” Genitivi contemplated this. “Interesting. Perhaps my research will not seem so much like blasphemy to the Chantry now.”

 

“Do you need assistance back to Denerim, Brother? We have room in our wagon.”

 

“I think that... Would be appreciated,” with his fervor ebbing, Genitivi seemed to realize just how tired he was.

 

“Shale,” Conrí turned to the Golem. “Normally I wouldn't ask, but would you mind carrying Brother Genitivi? To be blunt, we'll be slowed a great deal by his injury.”

 

Shale grumbled irritably. “So long as it doesn't get it in its head to make this a common thing, very well.”

 

“Under normal circumstances I would not ask,” Conrí reiterated. Shale huffed quietly and, as gingerly as it was able to, scooped the injured Genitivi up.

 

Xolana, who had been hanging back thoughtfully, spoke up. “I don't know, Conrí, I really don't think it'll be good for this place and the ashes if people find out about it from him. If they really are real, of course the faithful deserve to know, but the sheer number of pilgrims... And those ashes aren't exactly infinite, either.”

 

“And the area around it isn't exactly safe…” Erin added. 

 

“And Haven,” Zevran added his two bits. “Whilst never particularly welcoming in the first place, is full of dead people. I'd hazard a guess and say I'm the only one excited about that.”

 

“You all have a point,” Conrí agreed. “Brother, I know you wish to spread this news far and wide, but it would be prudent to hold off on that. The villagers are dangerous, even without their head and the dragon.”

 

Genitivi looked positively affronted. “You would keep this find from the faithful!?” he demanded.

 

“Until the Blight is done and the area can be made safe,” Conrí reasoned. “When that is done, perhaps an expedition can learn more about the temple.” 

 

Genitivi seemed to be about to keep protesting but then thought over what the young men and women were saying. He then slowly started nodding after all. “That... Is reasonable. Yes, in fact that is probably the most sensible course of action. It will also give me time to write up my findings. I apologize, my heart got away from my mind for a moment.”

 

“Glad you see it our way, Brother,” Conrí chuckled. “Come. The villagers shouldn’t trouble us on the way down.”

 

Xolana scoffed. “Yeah, no kidding. Most of them are dead.”

 

“Xolana,” Conrí bit out a warning.

 

“What? It's true,” Xolana grumbled. Conrí sent her a slight glare over his shoulder, making the mage quiet down again with a mild huff.

 

Tristan elbowed her. “Come on let's just get down from this stupid mountain.”

 

“Finally someone who speaks sense amidst all his ‘holy-Andraste’ nonsense,” Morrigan sneered.

 

“Morrigan, normally I’d let that slide,” Conrí rumbled. “But this is not the time. So, to be blunt, shut it.”

 

Morrigan huffed but for once did as she was bade. 

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, the group and their wagon finally rolled back into Redcliffe village. Conrí, having little patience to deal with Eamon, even in his weakened state, handed Alistair the pouch of ashes for the ailing arl and bade him take it to Teagan. After stripping himself of his armor and new sword he’d bartered from Bodahn, he headed to the windmill where Xolana was admiring the view. “Xolana,” he rumbled. When the mage emerged from her thoughts, he jerked head towards the tavern. “Come on. We need to talk, and I’d rather have a few drinks while we do.”

 

Xolana was slightly confused, not entirely sure what this was about, but stood up anyway. “Um... sure?”

 

Conrí led the way to tavern. Once inside, he stared hard at Lloyd the bartender before reaching past the bar and grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a pair of glasses before leaving a sovereign on the counter. “Come on. Back room is free.”

 

“So... Should I be scared..?” Xolana asked nervously.

 

Conrí just smirked. “Only if you can't hold your liquor.”

 

Xolana returned the smirk defiantly. “Is that a challenge?”

 

Conrí sat down and filled both glasses before passing one to Xolana. “Maybe. But, to get to the point... Leliana told me what you talked about a few days before Haven in the woods. And about... well. I'm sure you remember.”

 

Xolana instantly paled, staring at her glass for a moment. She then quickly took the shot and almost slammed the glass back down as the liquor hit her throat. “Gah…” she rasped. “So you're now bringing this up because…"

 

Conrí mimicked the mage before refilling the glasses. “Because. I need to know this isn't gonna affect how the three of us work together in combat. I trust you Xolana. But I have to be sure.”

 

“I wasn't planning on letting it affect her or I... or our ability to fight together,” Xolana mumbled before frowning. “Why it would affect YOU though, I do not comprehend.”

 

Conrí sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We were trying to keep it quiet but... you need to know. Leliana and I... well… how do I put this?”

 

Xolana was getting impatient. “Well, spit it out already. What's got your tongue in a twist all of a sudden? This isn't like you, Mr. Commander Sir,” Xolana added in a mocking tone.

 

Conrí, rather childishly, stuck his tongue out. “Fine. We both grew a spine and admitted how we felt about each other.”

 

Xolana, a bit slow on the uptake, mumbled out, “Felt about each other? You mean...” A look of realization spread over her face and she paled further. “Oh.” she took another shot.

 

Conrí refilled her glass before taking a shot and filling his own. “Yeah. That's why I grabbed this,” Conrí shook the bottle.

 

Xolana began to stammer. “If-, if I had known.... I wouldn't...” she began eyeballing her next shot and sincerely considering downing that one too.

 

“Drink up. There's plenty,” Conrí assured her. “Look, Amell, I’m not gonna be one of those insecure possessive gits who refuses to let his significant other talk to someone who happens to be interested in them.”

 

“No that's not what I’m worried about, I mean... I just...” Xolana sighed and threw back her shot. “Look I may be very open and forward, but if I had known she was already with someone else... even if it wasn't you... I would never have... oh BY THE MAKER,” she groaned.

 

“I know. This is why I brought it up. And why it might be, well, a bit awkward,” Conrí raked his hand through his hair. “Leliana and I are attracted to each other.... but we're both also attracted to you.”

 

“I know, I know, I'm sorry, I-” Xolana did a double take. “...What? ....You....” After a long moment of silence, Xolana hit her whiskey again. “...Really? You mean I'm not in trouble? Even... on the contrary?” a smirk began to develop on the mage’s face.

 

Conrí chuckled. “No you're not in trouble,” he said. “As for being on the contrary... that's something we need to work out.”

 

“Well I don't see the issue. You two like me, I like you two... where's the problem?” Xolana asked with a massive grin.

 

Conrí’s expression soured. “Wynne will give us even more grief. Leliana and I had barely kissed and the next morning, Wynne's breathing down our necks.”

 

“Oh. Right. Wynne,” Xolana’s look soured as well as she sipped her next glass more slowly. “How to deal with her...”

 

“Maybe we can get her a cat.” Conrí suggested with a shrug. Xolana burst out laughing. Conrí chuckled as well. “What? Isn't that what little old ladies do?”

 

Xolana wiped tears from her eyes. “I suppose you're right... But I doubt it'll help much here!”

 

“Hey, it's worth a shot,” Conrí snickered.

 

Xolana, with a somewhat straighter face, continued, “And we can't just keep it a secret from her...?” she asked, trying for the pragmatic solution.

 

Conrí rolled his eyes. “She found out the next day after Leliana and I kissed. I think she'd get suspicious if she spotted you and Leliana ducking into my tent.”

 

“...Discussing battle strategy...?” Xolana herself clearly didn't believe herself that this might work.

 

“Rather loudly,” Conrí chuckled. “As Leliana has told you, she's not a quiet lover.”

 

Xolana sighed. “You are right. Cats it is.”

 

Leliana chose that moment to poke her head in. “There you two are. Alistair was about to have a heart attack when he couldn't find you,” she giggled. “He was convinced you had gotten eaten by a- what did he call it? Dire bunny?”

 

Xolana giggled drunkenly as the alcohol started to hit her. “Oh, worse than that can happen when you're a Warden. Particularly a horny Warden, as we've established,” she added with a leer.

 

“Oh dear,” Leliana sighed, spying the mostly empty bottle on the table.

 

Conrí shook his head at the mage. “You light weight.”

 

Xolana grumbled. “How many of these did I toss down me... dares call me a lightweight...”

 

“Amell, I’m not even buzzed, and I’ve had as much as you,” Conrí pointed out.

 

“You, meanwhile, are three sheets to the wind,” Leliana added with a giggle.

 

“Hmph...” Xolana pouted. “I am perfectly in possession of all my faculties. ...Albeit slurry faculties...”

 

“If you say so,” Conrí rolled his eyes. “So why was Alistair panicking?”

 

“Oh, he said Arl Eamon wanted to talk to the both of you,” Leliana informed

 

Conrí slumped to the table. “Ugh... I am not drunk enough to talk to that man without killing him or his wife.”

 

Xolana smirked dangerously. “I could light some fire under his highly esteemed behind. Literally.”

 

“Don't tempt me,” Conrí grumbled.

 

“As much as Conrí... dislikes him, we do need Eamon to provide more troops,” Leliana reasoned. 

 

Xolana sighed again and leaned back against the back of the chair. “Alright, alright, I'll be civil.”

 

“Feel free to slap Isolde around a bit if she gets uppity,” Conrí snickered.

 

“Conrí!” Leliana scolded.

 

“Leliana!” Conrí mocked.

 

Leliana gave an exasperated groan. “That wasn't a very kind thing to say.”

 

Xolana smirked. “But funny.”

 

“Maker help me... you two will be the death of me,” Leliana sighed.

 

“Is that a challenge...?” Xolana asked with a saucy wink. Conrí smirked at Leliana as well.

 

Leliana scowled and snatched Conrí’s glass, throwing it back.

 

Xolana laughed. “That's the spirit!”

 

Leliana swallowed, making a face at the burn. “My revered mother would be appalled right now,” she giggled. “I haven't touched alcohol on over 2 years.”

 

“Leli, you're drinking with a warrior with an anger issue, a blood mage and with a nosy assassin outside the door,” Conrí pointed out as Zevran was heard cackling outside the door before his footsteps went back downstairs. “I'm fairly certain she could forgive a shot or two.”

 

Xolana chuckled. “You really have to remember your chantry days are behind you. Way behind you.”

 

“Very true. I will say this,” Leliana admitted. “I am not sorry to see those robes go. Maker's breath, those blasted things were so uncomfortable.”

 

Xolana laughed loudly. “Rather unflattering too. I much prefer seeing you as you are now.”

 

“Well, the armor is rather stylish, no?” Leliana allowed, examining the drake scale armor they’d procured in Denerim. On the way through the temple, they had gather numerous sets of drake scales. The finest armorer in Denerim, Wade, was more than pleased to work with the rare material. Conrí paid for the labor but not materials, much to Herren's, Wade’s partner, dismay. Conrí promised something more the next time they came to Denerim. 

 

“And it does highlight some of your features rather beautifully,” said Xolana with a twinkle in her eye.

 

“It's good to see you've recovered your old humor,” Leliana told her.

 

“Well, if I know I no longer have to worry about you hating me...” Xolana muttered.

 

“Hating you?” Leliana looked shocked. “Why would you ever think that?”

 

“Well... you know. After I kissed you out of the blue... I was just scared of your reaction.”

 

“You just surprised me,” Leliana explained, glancing at Conrí. “I never said I didn't enjoy it.”

 

“Well I know that now,” Xolana laughed

 

“I still don't understand why you would think I would hate you,” Leliana crossed her arms.

 

“Your reaction did not exactly make me think you liked me, dear,” Xolana reasoned.

 

“Well, you kissed me out of the blue!” Leliana protested.

 

“I thought you liked that,” Conrí pointed out with a devilish smirk, amused at the circular conversation.

 

Leliana pouted. “I'd prefer knowing the person liked me first,” she muttered stubbornly.

 

“She wasn't being very subtle,” Conrí went on.

 

Xolana glared at Conrí. “Wait how long had you been listening in!?”

 

“I wasn't,” Conrí rolled his eyes again. “You weren't subtle beforehand either.”

 

“Well exactly! …wait,” Xolana shot him another glare.

 

“So, you weren't near drooling over her the night before when Leliana's shirt rode up a bit as she took off her armor?” Conrí asked.

 

Xolana actually blushed. “NO! I WAS NOT!”

 

“Uh-huh. Then you missed seeing almost the entire expanse of her pale stomach?” Conrí raised his brows.

 

Xolana almost started drooling. Leliana blushed as well. “Conrí!”

 

“She just proved my point,” Conrí snickered.

 

“Yeah you keep laughing why don't you…” Xolana grumbled.

 

“Sorry,” Conrí chuckled.

 

“No you are not,” Xolana muttered, getting grouchy. The alcohol might have been playing a part.

 

“No, not really,” Conrí admitted. “Your face is priceless though.”

 

“Watch it, Commander,” Xolana growled. “I am a dangerous mage remember?”

 

“Dangerous?” Leliana giggled. “To the darkspawn, certainly. But to us you're as harmless as a newborn kitten.”

 

Xolana coughed and sputtered on her most recent shot. “NEW BORN… KITTEN...?”

 

“You're going to be a wet new born kitten if you don't be careful with that whiskey,” Conrí pointed out.

 

Xolana smirked again after a long moment. “Too true. And would you not just love that.”

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Xolana’s flirting. “Now, you know that's not what I meant.”

 

“Oh I think it is,” Xolana argued, smirk still firmly in place. 

 

Conrí shook the bottle. “Well, we're out anyway. Can you walk straight?”  


 


	32. A Frosty Alliance and A Pack of Lions

“This is most troubling,” Eamon muttered. 

 

Most of Conrí’s companions stood in the main hall of Redcliffe Castle, having been summoned by the still recovering Arl. He had gain enough strength to stand and speak, but not for long periods of time, leading to a comfortable chair being at the ready not far from him.

 

Conrí crossed his arms over his armored chest, his all too common mask of indifference firmly in place. Whatever buzz the whiskey had given him faded quickly during his trek up to the castle. His armor once again gleamed like a freshly cast silver, any scratches or stains removed by Owen as thanks for saving his daughter during their last visit. His face was now cleaned as well, having procured a shaving kit in town and trimmed his beard. With his facial hair now at his ideal length and style, he even went back to braiding his hair… Or rather Leliana insisted on brushing and braiding it herself. It was still noticeably shorter than it had been before Ostagar, however. 

 

In short, he looked every bit the young commander. Erin, eager to drive this home, had informed the others to stand laterally behind him rather than directly by his side. This would let Eamon know who was in charge and thus unable to even ‘accidently’ snub him. 

 

“There is much to be done, that is true,” Eamon continued. “But I should first be thankful to those who have done so much. Warden Cousland, you have not only saved my life, but kept my family safe as well. I am in your debt. Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?”

 

“If you wish, we won’t object,” Conrí allowed, glancing at those with him as he put emphasis on ‘we’.

 

“Then allow me to declare you and those travelling with you champions of Redcliffe. You will always be a welcome guest within these halls.”

 

Conrí’s eyes narrow a fraction. It was unlikely Eamon did this as purely thanks. The title of Champion was a tricky thing. It had a tradition of power but also of servitude. By being named Champion, the recipient had a responsibility to protect those who’d named them such. Conrí had to wonder if this was to ensure the safety of Redcliffe’s remaining citizens or a ploy by Eamon to gain leverage over Conrí’s people. Either way, Conrí would treat this nomination with caution. While Grey Wardens were sworn to protect the people from darkspawn and the Archdemon, they served no one in the abstract. In practice, this was muddled, but Conrí was content to wait and see for the moment.   
  
“And for you, Warden, a shield of the same make as those that have been given to our finest knights,” Eamon concluded, handing Conrí a Red Steel Kite shield emblazoned with the heraldry of Redcliffe.

 

Conrí inclined his head slightly with a brief, “Thank you, your grace,” and passed the shield to Alistair, who would no doubt get much more use of it then he would. Eamon nodded in approval before turning to his brother.  
  
“We should speak of Loghain, brother,” Teagan said immediately. "There is no telling what he will do once he learns of your recovery.”

 

Eamon shook his head wearily. “Loghain instigates a civil war even though the darkspawn are on our very doorstep. Long have I known him. He is a sensible man; one who never desired power.”

 

“I was there when he announced he was taking control of the throne, Eamon,” Teagan argued. “He is mad with ambition, I tell you.”

 

“This is where we will disagree, Teagan,” Conrí rumbled. “From what I’ve been able to learn, Loghain is not acting out of his own desire for power. He suffers from a fate all too common of old soldiers; he believes only he can keep Fereldan safe and sees enemies where there are none; namely, Orlais. While I will be last to advise we discount the Orlesians taking advantage of the situation, the darkspawn are the true threat, not the Chevaliers. It is stubbornness and old wounds, not ambition, that drives him.”

 

“Then how do you explain his actions here?” Teagan demanded. 

 

Erin snorted and pointed to Isolde. “Don’t be naïve, Teagan. Eamon’s ties to Orlais and the Grand Game are well known, as is his ambition. In Loghain’s eyes, what better way is there for Eamon to grab the power your sister, brother-in-law and nephew denied him, than to have Orlais take hold of Fereldan again? Redcliffe was a major flash point during the Occupation; what better way to keep Orlesian rule stable than to cut that off before it starts, rather than having a powerful arl as a cat’s paw? I understand your point of view, Teagan, but you are lashing out emotionally. We must be rational here. If Loghain had truly wanted power, he could have had it five years ago when Maric vanished and you well know it. Enough banns and arls would have supported him if he wished to succeed the king.”

 

“I…” Teagan sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You may be right.”

 

“We are not saying to let Loghain get away with his actions,” Conrí pointed out. “Cailan was a dear friend, as you well know. I intend to see Loghain answer for the king’s death and for allowing that rat Rendon Howe to benefit from his betrayal of my family. We will remind them why the Cousland’s are known as the Wolves of the North.”

 

“Whatever happened to him,” Eamon stepped in. “Loghain must be stopped. What’s more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end.”

 

“What do you propose, then?” Conrí asked. 

 

“We have no time to wage a campaign against him,” Eamon explained. “Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance fighting the darkspawn.”

 

Conrí lifted a hand to his chin, pulling at his beard slightly. “Loghain will have to capitulate then…”

 

“I agree,” Eamon nodded. “Loghain will pay for his heinous crimes. But our armies must be reserved for the darkspawn, not each other. I will spread word of Loghain’s treachery, both here and against the king. However, it will be but a claim made without proof. Those claims will give Loghain’s allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daughter, the Queen.”

 

“Are you referring to Alistair, Brother?” Teagan asked, confused. “Are you certain?”

 

“I would not propose such a thing if there was an alternative, but the unthinkable has occurred.”

 

“That may not be wise,” Serena spoke for the first time since entering the chamber. “While I believe Alistair would make a good, if not excellent, king, Loghain and his supporters will see this proposal as you grabbing at the power behind the throne. After all, you raised Alistair, no?” Serena’s expression was mild but her words held the underline of a challenge that Eamon noticed, for his expression soured slightly. “Add that to the fact he’s had no training, has the barest grasp of etiquette let alone politics - and no experience leading anything.”  
  
“Nice to know you believe in me so, Aeducan,” Alistair muttered.  
  
Serena shot a slight glare at Alistair. “These things can be learned and you are clever enough to do it in good time, but even if you do get plopped on the big chair, it will be with the aftertaste of Eamon pulling the strings. That is a weakness Eamon’s detractors will use to undermine you at every turn. If this is necessary, Eamon cannot be seen as the one who put you there, let alone given a position beyond what he has already. Nor can the Grey Wardens, for that matter. We are officially a neutral power. Unofficially, we can give you a push, but this card cannot be seen in our hand. This isn’t the Anderfells or Weisshaupt, Alistair. With the order having a presence through much of Thedas, we can easily be seen as a foreign unknown power. The only reason Loghain might even consider trusting us is the fact each of us were born and raised within Fereldan’s borders, more or less. I think part of Orzammar might extend into Orlais, but I do not know.”

 

“Blood means a great deal to the traditionalists, Alistair,” Erin continued. “If there was someone with a stronger claim, such as an uncle of Cailan or you on your father’s side, they’d likely have a better chance through the fact that they were not born of a commoner.” Alistair shot her a small glance of confusion. Erin merely shook her head imperceptibly. It may be unwise in the long run to reveal Alistair’s true parentage. “You have Theirin blood and to many of those who remember the Occupation, that is the most important factor.”

 

“So, do I even have a choice in the matter?” Alistair asked, bitterness creeping into his voice.

 

“Of course you do,” Conrí nodded making Alistair blink in surprise and Eamon frown. “You always have a choice. It may, however, mean allying directly with Loghain, or at the very least the Queen. Anora is an old friend as well, but we didn’t always see eye to eye. Still, we may have a better chance with her than her father. Practically, however, it would give either of them authority over us. With the Blight digging its claws into Fereldan, this is not a good idea. Eliminating them would also be a poor choice, for more reasons than turning our accusations into excuses. I’ve only met Loghain a few times, but I know Cauthrien. She’s as loyal and obedient as an attack dog.” A huff from Kiba behind him drew Conrí’s attention. “I said attack dog, not wardog. There is a difference, you touchy lump of fur. Gwaren is almost mindlessly obedient to Loghain. If he’s killed, we can kiss any assistance from that Teyrnir good bye. They might accept an order for men, but they would drag their feet infuriatingly about providing them, to the point we’d have no help at all. We must play politics, but at the end of the day, the Grey Wardens can bow to no one if we want a hope of slaying the Archdemon. In the grand scheme of things, however, the choice is yours to make. I can’t order you one way or another in this instance.”

 

Alistair dipped his head in contemplation. With a defeated sigh, he looked at Conrí. “You make an excellent point. I’ll do it. As much as my stomach protests at the thought of a crown on my head, for Fereldan and to defeat the Blight… I’ll be king if the nobles let me.”

 

“I see only one way to proceed,” Eamon put in, no doubt hiding his pleasure at his motion being agreed to. “I will call for a Landsmeet, a gathering of all of Fereldan’s nobility in the city of Denerim. There, Fereldan can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then business of fighting our true foe can begin. What say you to that, my friend? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing.”

 

Conrí inwardly grimaced at Eamon’s heavy handed attempt at mollifying him, but outwardly nodded. “Call the Landsmeet. But wait to do so. We have one treaty left to get acknowledged. Orzammar. With how finicky the Dwarves tend to be, it may take some time. Last thing we need is for the Prince to be late,” Conrí turned with a small smirk to a paling Alistair. “That would be bad form indeed.”

 

“Sod off,” Alistair mumbled, his pallor rapidly turning green.

 

“Very well, I will send out the word to our allies to prepare,” Eamon nodded before turning to his brother. “But before we proceed, I believe there is still the matter of the mage… my son’s tutor. He still lives, I understand.”

 

“He does.” Teagan nodded. “He is in the dungeon, Brother.”

 

“Have him brought here, Teagan. I wish to see him.”

 

Conrí grimaced and looked at Tristan and Xolana as Teagan made for the dungeons. Both were standing off to the side, both as rigid as if their spines had been replaced with iron rods. Iron… Conrí thought, his eyes flaring slightly as a contingency struck him. He hid a smirk as Jowan was led into the room by Teagan and flanked by a pair of guards.  
  
“Jowan,” Eamon snipped. “What you have done is not in question. You tried to assassinate me and set into motion a series of events that nearly destroyed all that I cherish. What have you to say in your own defense?”

 

“Nothing, my lord,” Jowan muttered. “Other than to say I am sorry. I expect no mercy for what I have done.”

 

“I see,” Eamon scowled. “Warden Cousland, have you anything to say on Jowan’s behalf?”

 

“I do,” Conrí crossed his arms. “I do not deny Jowan’s culpability any more than he does. But he has been urgent in his desire to right what he has done. Much like many of us, he is a victim of Loghain’s machinations; given half truths and assurances.”

 

“I see… that is... surprising to hear…” Eamon grimaced slightly. “And what would you have me do? As the damaged party, my ability to see the merciful path is… strained.”

 

“Let him go,” Conrí shrugged dismissively. “He’s hardly our problem anymore.”

 

“That I cannot do,” Eamon said firmly. “Despite his repentance, he is a maleficar and I cannot in good faith let him go free. He will return to the Circle, and face whatever punishment they deem appropriate.”

 

Conrí scowled openly. “Oh? If that’s the case, why is the other responsible party looking so damn smug?” he growled.

 

Eamon started, turning back to Conrí as Jowan was led out, the mage offering no resistence, Distracted with Conrí, Eamon missed Xolana and Tristan exit towards the entrance hall. “Other? What are you talking about.”

 

“Your wife, Eamon!” Conrí snarled. “Once again, you defend or ignore her actions! By hiding Connor’s magic, she enabled Loghain to slip Jowan into your lap! I am not a supporter of the Circle, that is no secret. I am quite vocal about how mages and magic in general are treated. But at the moment, it is the best place for a mage to learn to truly control their magic! Not just hide it!” he added with a venomous glare at the defiant Isolde. “Isolde is just as responsible as Loghain and Jowan in this incident, if not more. You may have still been poisoned, Eamon or had a dagger slipped into your side, but had Isolde not hidden your son’s magic, your village wouldn’t have been terrorized by undead! You don’t seem to comprehend just how close that demon was to fully possessing your son and turning Redcliffe into an army of walking corpses!” Conrí’s expression warped into a cruel sneer. “But why would I expect any different? Your past speaks for itself, Eamon, and not just in your dealings with me. Pretty sure Maric would have fed your entrails to a Mabari if he learned how you’d treated his son, bastard or no,” he snorted. “I won’t forget this second insult, Eamon. For the moment, we’re allies. Until the Blight is done, I will suffer your scheming and favoritism. After…” Conrí let the sentence hang and turned to Wynne. “You have the most experience training young mages. It may be best if you saw to Connor’s education until he can be taken safely to the Tower.” Wynne nodded even as another began voicing an opposition. 

 

“How dare you--?” Isolde was cut off by a harsh bark from Conrí.

 

“I dare because I have the title of Champion! This means I protect the people of Redcliffe, and I will; even from its own Arlessa’s stupidity. Connor needs training and at the moment, the Circle is not an option! Wynne has had decades of experience with young and frightened mages. Unless you want something worse than corpses running around, you will hold your bloody tongue!” 

 

With this last denunciation, Conrí swept from the hall following Tristan and Xolana’s path, leaving a redfaced Isolde, a pale Eamon and Teagan, fighting a grin. That boy… no, Teagan thought that man is definitely Bryce’s son, he thought. He’d been saying for years that Eamon let Isolde get away with far too much. How many servants had decided to risk starvation in search of other employment rather than deal with Isolde’s temper tantrums?

 

* * *

 

Conrí strode with purpose through the portcullis of Redcliffe Castle, headed down the slope. Not too far ahead of him, walking slowly and talking quietly were his missing mages. An unfriendly smile spread over his face briefly before sliding off into a familiar mask of indifference. “Amell, Surana,” he called. When the pair looked up, looking surprised and decidedly unhappy with Eamon’s decision, he continued toward them. “Walk with me,” Conrí suggested. As they left the line of sight of the nearest guard and were well out of earshot, Conrí slowed to a stop. “First, I want to apologize for Jowan’s fate. These aren’t my lands, so I have no power to overturn Eamon’s decision. Those cells are inhospitable at the best of times. Full of mice, even rats. Spiders. Maker, even the doors are shit. I mean a sturdy knife could fool the lock,” he glanced at the mages. “But I can’t interfere. If something were to happen and I was seen in the area… Eamon may decide to move against Loghain without us, even denounce us.”

 

The pair looked like they were about to protest before dawning spread over their faces. “So if you are seen near the cells and Jowan somehow get’s loose…?” Xolana mumbled.

 

“Then all that business in Haven and here would have been a waste of time,” Conrí shook his head. “Just so you understand,” he said looking towards the clouds. “Why I can’t get involved.” He looked back to the mages, cunning and a bit of cruel mischief flickering in his cool blue-grey eyes. 

 

Xolana smiled slightly. “We understand, Commander.”

  
Conrí nodded, a sly smirk sliding onto his lips. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said lightly. “Don’t be out too late.”

 

“Yes, ser,” Tristan snickered.

 

“Either of you seen Sten? I got word that the man who bought his sword was in town.”

 

* * *

 

Jowan lay on his battered cot in his cell, moodily staring at the rough stone ceiling. He’d long since been brought his meager supper, indicating it was well after dark. He should be asleep, but knowing this was likely the start of his last few days alive or in control of his mind made for a fitful evening. 

 

A quiet squeak made him look up. A small white mouse stood just outside his cell, its forepaws perched on one of the lower bars. He supposed the little thing could be after the remnants of his meal… but then, why did it seem to be looking at him? As Jowan was contemplating this, the mouse slipped through the bars and rather than heading for his discarded tray, it made for him. It crawled up the leg of his cot and scurried up his body to sit on his stomach. The tiny creature looked at him for a long moment before tugging at his robes. Oddly, it didn’t seem intent on chewing through the fabric but… trying to pull him towards the bars. He slowly sat up and the mouse scurried off him and the cot and out of the cell but no further. It squeaked imploringly making Jowan finally get up fully. When he did, the mouse did something he never could have expected. 

 

It changed into Tristan. 

  
“Holy Maker,” Jowan breathed. 

 

“No time to pat me on the back, Jowan,” Tristan said quietly. “We don’t have much time before someone notices I’m gone.” He drew a short, stout knife from his robes, making Jowan back up a step. “Relax, this isn’t for you. The beating Amell and I gave you was more than sufficient,” Tristan stuck the knife into the old lock and twisted it, straining slightly. After a tense moment, the lock clicked, Tristan withdrew the knife and opened the door. “Come on, we have to move.”

 

“Why… why are you helping me?” Jowan asked, rooted to the spot.

 

“Because I’m pissed at you but I’m not about to let Greagoir take off your head or slap a brand on it. Now, enough with the stupid questions and let’s go!” Tristan snapped, striding in and grabbing Jowan by the front of his robes. 

 

Jowan let himself be dragged towards the secret passage out of the castle. At the other end they found Xolana waiting with a large pack next to her and a new set of robes in her hands. “Here,” she said, pushing the robes and pack into Jowan’s arms. “The way out of the village is clear. If you take the road about mile you’ll come to a crossroads with a pond about a dozen paces off it. You can clean yourself there.” 

 

“Burn those robes when you get the chance,” Tristan went on, pointing to the filthy apprentice robes Jowan wore. “It would be a good idea to head into the bannorn and lose yourself there. Without a phylactery, the templars will have a joy of a time finding you. If you’re desperate head north to the coastlands and look for a cave on the border between Highever and Amaranthine.” 

 

“This mark will let you know you’ve found the right place,” Xolana pushed a piece of parchment into his hands. The symbol on the back was simple, just a tall, slender diamond with a circle in the middle. On the back was a short note from Xolana explaining to someone named Levi that Jowan was trustworthy and capable of helping. “We’ll likely return well after you arrive. Be careful. Even without templars, Fereldan is far from safe at the moment.”

 

Jowan was silent for a long moment. “Thank you,” he said finally. “I know I don’t deserve this kindness, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

 

Xolana stood silently for a moment, then pulled both Jowan and Tristan into a hug. “I’m not about to lose another friend to the damn templars…” she said quietly before pulling away. “Now go! You don’t have all night!” 

 

Jowan nodded and slung the pack over his back and retreated quickly out the door towards the edge of the village. Tristan put his hand on Xolana’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said after a moment. “We better get to the tavern before we’re missed.”

 

Xolana nodded and followed Tristan out the door. 

 

The tavern was full and the patrons were loud. If their absence had been noticed, it was by few. Gathered around a round table were Conrí, Alistair, Serena, Zevran and Garik. “Alright, lads… and lady,” Thomas grinned at Serena. “Let’s see what you’re made of. On my mark. Three… two… one… GO!” As one, all five around the table raised their mugs and began chugging down whatever ale Lloyd stocked the bar with. Conrí was the first to slam down his empty pewter tankard with a satisfied sigh and a bit of ale running down his beard. Serena was a split second behind him followed by Garik, Zevran and Alistair. 

 

“Ugh,” Serena grimaced. “The ale here is awful.”

 

“Aye,” Thomas agreed with a laugh. “But it gets drunk as well as anything else.”

 

Garik swayed slightly. “Uh boss?” he slurred, looking at Zevran. “Either you shrunk or I’ve had a few too many.”

 

“I believe more than a few,” Zevran chuckled as Garik pitched over and landed on the floor of the tavern with a dull thump. 

 

Conrí shook his head. “Rogues,” he muttered just as Alistair buckled, managing to land in a chair and was snoring a moment later. “Maybe not just rogues.”

 

“Thank you, my friend,” Zevran chuckled, a bit wobbly himself. “I believe that is enough for me tonight and thus , I shall retire.”

 

Serena tossed back a shot of whiskey, enjoying the burn before dropping the glass on the table. “Same here. I’ll get lumpy here up to bed,” she said, staggering slightly over to Garik and yanking him onto her shoulders with almost alarming ease despite her inebriated state. “Night, Commander.”

 

“Sleep well,” Conrí nodded before downing his own shot.   
  
Xolana and Tristan, seeing him alone for the first time since they’d arrived, made a beeline for him, taking a pair of offered shots as they did. “We did it,” Xolana said as they held out their glasses to Conrí. 

 

Conrí raised a brow and lifted his own, clinking it off theirs. “Did what?” he asked, tossing back the shot and stacking the glass on his first. “Good night,” he added, waving and heading up the stairs with only the smallest weave to his step. 

 

Xolana and Tristan grinned slightly at each other and tossed back their shots before heading to bed as well. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning Conrí was woken early by a pounding on his door. He opened his eyes groggily, glaring at the window as he realized it was barely after daybreak. With an agitated grumble, he rolled over and got up. Brushing a hand through his tangled hair, he grabbed his undershirt and pulled it on before opening the door. Eamon and a number of guards stood outside his door. “Eamon,” Conrí said grumpily. “To what do I owe this unexpected and very early pleasure?”

 

“Jowan escaped last night!” Eamon snapped. 

 

“Keep your voice down,” Conrí grumbled, moving into the hall and shutting the door behind him. “My companion is still sleeping. So Jowan escaped. And you’re pounding on my door because?”

 

“He could not have escaped on his own!” Eamon insisted. “And you seemed quite upset with my judgment!”

 

“Eamon, I have been nowhere near your castle since I left yesterday afternoon,” Conrí said, scrubbing his face warily. “I retrieved one of my Companions stolen sword from one of the village’s residents and then made my way here where I spent the rest of the night. If you don’t believe me, ask Dwyn just off the lake and Lloyd downstairs. Now, if you’re quite done, I still have a few hours left of sleep to get before I leave for Orzammar.” Conrí turned to return to his room.

 

Eamon immediately grabbed his arm. “I know you had something to do with this, Cousland,” he said angrily.

Conrí halted and turned glacially back to Eamon. “Arl Eamon, it is only because you are needed against Loghain that I do not challenge you to a duel for besmirching my honor right this instant,” he growled. “You have insulted me twice now in as many days. If you go for a third, Loghain be damned I will run you through. You will remove your hand from me, or I will remove it permanently,” Eamon scowled and pulled his hand back. “Good. Before you insult me again, Eamon. Remember this; it was my decision to find the Temple of Sacred ashes, and it was on the backs of myself and those with me that brought down the Cult living there. Without me, without us, you’d either still be wasting away in bed or being pushed out onto the lake for an Alamarri funeral. Remember that before you or your harpy opens your mouth to me again. And from now on, Eamon, you will refer to me as Warden Commander.” With nothing else to be said, Conrí turned and walked back into his room, closing the door in Eamon’s face. 

 

When the door was shut, a sly grin crossed Conrí’s face as he made his way back to his side of the bed, hearing Eamon and his men retreat. He slipped in and wrapped an arm around a still sleeping Leliana.  


“Well played, Commander.” Maybe Leliana wasn't as asleep as he thought.

 

Conrí grinned slightly. “What do you mean?”

 

“You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with Jowan’s escape?” Leliana asked, remaining with her back to Conrí and her eyes closed.

 

“I merely gave a few of our companions some rather innocuous information about Eamon’s frankly ill-kept dungeons and how I couldn’t be seen anywhere near Jowan should something like this occur,” Conrí explained, laying a kiss on the back of Leliana’s neck. “And I spoke the truth. I was in the village the whole time after I left the castle. How could I have time?”

 

“Hm,” Leliana rolled over with a devious grin. “Well played indeed. A gambit worthy of the Grand Game.”

 

Conrí chuckled. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said before pulling Leliana into a kiss.

 

* * *

 

A few days into the trip to Orzammar, Tira leaned against the tree she had set her tent near, gazing around the camp at her traveling companions. She had to admit, when she had followed Tamlen into that cave, she never could have predicted the result of that misadventure would be this. Her companions were definitely growing on her. ‘Like a rash,’ she thought with a chuckle.

 

Her hazel eyes found Conrí first. It was his day to prepare breakfast so he was tending the fire, carefully placing smooth flat rocks in the heart of the flames to heat them up. This trick always intrigued her, having never thought to use such things to quickly heat strips of salted meat and eggs. The man himself was a bit of a enigma. His eyes, now so full of life compared to when she first met him, gave away little of what he was thinking.

 

Her eyes trailed over to Erin next as she sat next to Leliana to chat, and a fond smile spread over her face. While the pair had little in common besides the way of the sword, she found the former noblewoman to be easy to talk to. She was not judgmental and answered any questions Tira had and asked several of her own. She found the concept of vallaslin utterly fascinating, even showing Tira the small laurel wreath she had tattooed over her heart. 

 

Conrí and Erin had thrown her initial perception of humans way off. When she heard she was to travel with a pair of human nobles from the northern coastlands, she had expected a duo of smug, arrogant bastards who would look down their noses at her. What she found caught her flat-footed. Erin’s eyes were constantly blood shot the entire way to Ostagar, no doubt from crying herself to sleep and waking up from terrible nightmares. Conrí wasn’t in a much better state, his eyes distant. He tried so hard to be strong from the day they left Morrigan’s hut, but there were times, mostly late at night, when Tira would spy Conrí standing a distance from the fire at camp, his eyes turned toward the north.

 

She turned slightly to spy on Tristan as he practiced his swordplay with Zevran and Xolana. The mages were very eager to utilize the ancient elven discipline they’d discovered in the werewolves’ layer. There had been some friction between the elven mage and pretty much everyone in the camp, save Morrigan. After Conrí had pulled him from the ledge near the Ruined Temple that housed the human’s prophet, the tension had lessened enough that Conrí agreed to teach Tristan swordplay. This didn’t mean Conrí took it easy on the mouthy elf. It was the bruises he was likely still carrying from his last spar with Conrí that made him ask Zevran for tips.

 

The Circle mages, having been trapped in the Tower most of their lives, had never seen snow and just before Haven had provided an interesting distraction not far from Haven when they first discovered the weather phenomenon.

 

_ [Flashback] _

 

Conrí was already up and sweeping snow from the fire pit. “Blast,” he muttered. “I didn't expect this much to fall...”

 

Xolana slowly woke up because she felt so cold and Conrí’s noise added to prying her awake. She gradually sat up with a sneeze. “Maker how did it get so cold...” she was about to keep complaining as she opened her eyes and pried apart the opening of her tent when she screamed.

 

Zevran, shaken awake rather rudely by the screaming, was already up and out of his tent, knives drawn, only to start swearing furiously in Antivan when he realized they were surrounded by this horribly cold, white stuff. 

 

Unlike Xolana, who had hidden back inside her tent, screeching, “What in damnation is that stuff? Get it away!” he calmed down because he realized it must be this "snow" stuff he'd heard about before… though he did decide to duck back into his tent to put on some clothes.

 

“Bleeding hell, Amell, what are you going on about?” Conrí demanded, startled by his companion's hysteria. 

 

Zevran, while Xolana was not quite in control of all her mental faculties, had managed to fling on his clothes. Despite realizing with dismay that they would most certainly not be sufficient in the long run, he managed to come outside, shivering rather unflatteringly. “I-I-I do believe... that perhaps our d-dear Xolana is rather...” he sneezed suddenly before continuing. “Shocked at finding h-hers-s-s-elf surrounded by what I will ass-s-s-s-sume is snow...?” his usual smooth speech perhaps somewhat impeded.

 

Conrí, meanwhile, was unimpressed. “I told you to pick up a heavier cloak, Zevran,” he said, unclasping his bear pelt cloak. “Take mine for now.” He tossed it to the elf and grabbed his slightly lighter cloak.

 

Erin, who’d emerged from her tent by this point, stuck her head into Xolana’s tent. “Uh, Xolana? You okay?”

 

“How are you not freaking out!?” Xolana demanded. “What is that stuff!? It's cold and horrible and it's everywhere!”

 

Erin stared at Xolana like she was a crazy person before it dawned on the Templar-in-Training. “Oh. Tower. Whole life. Right. Xolana, that stuff is snow.”

 

Xolana blinked at Erin a couple of times, lost, before understanding dawned. “...snow...?”

 

“Yes,” Erin chuckled. “It happens in winter and it gets everywhere. It's not gonna hurt you.... well, unless you walk around barefoot for a long time, then it might. That's why Conrí bought everyone those,” Erin pointed to Xolana’s pair of fur lined boots.

 

“...snow,” Xolana still looked shell-shocked. “This... is snow? I read about snow... I always thought it would be... more... I mean...” the normally loquacious mage seemed to be struggling for words.

 

“It's ice, basically,” Erin explained. “Really cold and it takes forever to get rid of this far south. Come on, Conrí’s fixing breakfast and it's our turn to get some firewood.”

 

“But... oh... ok,” Xolana muttered, trying to pull herself together. “So... I'll meet you outside? Like, in the snow?”

 

Erin suppressed a smile. “Yes in the snow. I swear, you're worse than the dwarves.” Xolana started to complain but sneezed instead. Erin snickered. “Bundle up, sparkle fingers.”

 

This left Xolana grumbling about the nickname, though she did indeed bundle up. When she finally stepped outside, carefully mind you, she started off looking suspicious, but eventually started prodding at the snow with her toe more and more curiously, eventually even cracking a smile. “I guess... it is kind of pretty, isn't it?”

 

Garik shivered by the fire next to a complaining Zevran while Serena caught a snowflake. “They're like... Little crystals,” she mused.

 

“They are little crystals,” Shale informed her. “The ice forms into a crystalline structure. But they melt quickly in the hand of a squishy flesh creature.”

 

“So they do. I've never heard of something like this,” Serena admitted.

 

“The wonders of living above ground,” Conrí rolled his eyes.

 

“I thought that rain nonsense was bad...” Garik griped.

 

Conrí turned and spotted Xolana looking around. “Finally back with us, Amell?” he asked.

 

Xolana, finally starting to regain her senses and instead studying the snow with childish glee rather than flinching in horror, looked up. “You know... this is actually fun!” she giggled, randomly poking shapes into the snow with her fingers and bunching up snow in places to make little unsophisticated snow castles.

 

Alistair snickered as he packed a snowball, aiming at Conrí’s back, and tossed it. When it hit, Alistair burst out laughing. Conrí however, didn't even flinch; just scooped up a handful of snow, packed it, turned and launched it at Alistair's still laughing face.

 

Xolana watched in fascination, finally staring down at the snow at her feet. She tried packing a snowball herself and chuckled with glee as she realized it worked. She looked around and spotted Tristan minding his own business, shivering by Morrigan's fire, and aimed for him. She threw her snowball, striking him in the back of the head and burst out with a gleeful chuckle.

 

Morrigan chuckled. “Seems your classmate has gotten used to the weather faster than you, Tristan.”

 

Tristan brushed the snow off angrily. ‘Damnit, Amell!” he snapped, only for more snow to hit him in the face this time.

 

“I'm sorry, I can't hear you over all this snow!” Xolana crowed, packing another missile already, looking around for another target. Tristan growled and grabbed a handful of snow and hobbled after Xolana, throwing the drifts at her.

 

Zevran, catching on to the trend, packed a snowball himself, ready to throw at Morrigan's chest. “Throw that snowball if you're finished with your life, elf,” the witch sneered without looking up from her book. Zevran looked like he was about to make a sassy remark but then reconsidered and ended up throwing the ball at Blair instead.

 

Blair sputtered as she shook the snow from her head. “Oh, you're so dead, Antivan,” she hissed.

 

Leliana poked her head out of her tent. “What in the Maker's name is going on out here?”

 

Wynne came out of her own tent. “Oh dear...”

 

Leliana was struck in her face from somewhere and Wynne had another slide down her robes. Leliana shrieked and hid back in her tent while Wynne yelped and began shaking her robes trying to get the snow off.

 

“Alright, I think that's enough,” Conrí chuckled, only to get struck in the face himself. He slowly reached up and wiped his face off. “Sten. Shale. End this please.” Sten already had an armful of if snowballs while Shale flanked him with even more for the Qunari to throw. Conrí gathered yet more snow and began pelting everyone still outside alongside Sten.

 

Alistair, thinking quickly, covered the back of his head with his shield. “I give! UNCLE! I surrender! Maker save me!”

 

Conrí didn’t relent until he and his allies in this snow war were out of ammunition. “Are we done?” he finally asked dryly.

 

Alistair crawled out the snow pile covering him. “Yes, Commander! We're done!” he yelped.

 

Serena peered around her shield. “Won't happen again,” she said.

 

Xolana peeked out from behind Zevran while Tristan peeked out from hiding behind her. In unison, the trio mumbled. “Never again.”

 

“Good. Amell, Erin, you're on firewood today,” Conrí instructed. “Alistair, since you started this, you can clean up the camp. Tira, you, Blair and Zev are hunting today.” Zevran sighed dramatically as if he didn't love being on duty with Tira and Blair.

 

Xolana ran up to the more forgiving Cousland. “Well come on what are you waiting for! Snow is awesome, let's go!”

 

“We're gonna have to find some wood that's mostly dry, otherwise we'll smoke ourselves out,” Erin informed the mage. “This close to the Wilds, that isn't a good idea.”

 

_ [End Flashback] _

 

Tira chuckled and turned her attention to the rest of her companions.

 

Blair, much like Erin, was quite eager to learn of Tira’s Dalish heritage, though unlike the human, Blair seemed much more adept at learning the elven language. She was quite serious most of the time, though this lessoned a bit around Zevran, with Tira often spying a small smile on her face at Zevran’s antics. Like Tristan, Blair was quite interested in learning to wield a sword to go along with her skills with daggers. 

 

The dynamic of the dwarves with them seemed to have changed since they had departed Redcliffe. Tira smiled mischievously; she knew why.

 

_ [Flashback] _

 

As the sun set on the day the group left Redcliffe, Serena finished putting up her tent. She’d been thinking long and hard since her last… conversation with Garik. At least, the last one without someone very close by. 

 

As much as it still stung that Gorim had moved on without her, she realized a while ago that it would never have worked between them. While he had been the first man she had slept with, and thus far the only, the whole world seemed dead set against them being together. So, she’d given her blessing, as little as she thought it was worth, and asked to meet the lucky lady one day. Gorim had looked so guilty at the time, no doubt seeing the tears she’d tried to hide behind a mask of humor.   
  
She pulled the shield Gorim had given her before she’d departed. The Shield of Aeducan. She never thought to see it again and indeed had forgotten all about it. She may have left Denerim with it on her back, but once she’d returned to camp, doubt once again gripped her and she’d held off on using it. Maybe it was time she put it to use… 

 

With a grunt, she shoved the shield back into her tent and grabbed the battered Red Steel targe she’d been using since her first time in the Redcliffe smithy. She brought it over to Bodahn and quickly bartered it to him. She got a decent price since the dents could be hammered out and the scratches were superficial at best. 

 

Once she pocketed her silver and bits, she noticed Garik returning with two armfuls of firewood. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, Serena made her way over to the rogue. “Brosca,” she called as Garik dropped the firewood a few paces from the fire.

 

The Bard-in-training looked up, dusting his hands off. “Yeah? What’s up, Princess?” he asked.

 

Serena ignored the nickname for the moment. “Can I talk to you for a moment? Alone?”

 

Garik raised his eyebrow but just motioned a ways from the camp. 

 

Once they’d gotten out of earshot from the others, Serena turned to Garik. “Garik… I need you to do me a favor,” she said.

 

Garik shrugged. “Alright. Can’t guarantee I’ll agree, but ask.”

 

“I need you to kiss me again,” Serena said bluntly.

 

Garik froze, his eyebrows rising so fast he was mildly amazed they didn’t just shoot off. “Come again?”

 

“You heard me,” Serena lifted her chin defiantly. 

 

Garik was silent for a few moments. “I thought you wanted to just forget about the last time,” he said. “You haven’t mentioned it since.”

 

“Trust me,” Serena grumbled. “Part of me tried.”

 

Garik crossed his arms, his cynical side coming out. “This have anything to do with what happened with Gorim?” he asked. “I like you, Serena, but I won’t be a consolation prize.”

  
“That’s not…” Serena sighed, pinching her brow. “Yes, my talk with Gorim does have something to do with this. But not what you think. I’d been attracted to you in some way since you pinched my purse in the Commons. I didn’t realize just how much until you kissed me. I panicked. And later I felt guilty since I’d promised to find Gorim. After we talked, I realized it would have never worked out with me and him and I’ve been arguing with myself about this since. I like you, too, Garik. But whether it’s just physical or… I just have to be sure. Will you do me this favor?”

 

Garik considered for a moment before stepping closer. “So,” he said lowly. “If it turns out to be more… will you run again?”

 

“No,” Serena whispered.

 

“Good,” Garik lifted Serena’s chin slightly and kissed her.

 

Much like the first time, Serena almost melted into the kiss. Besides the one Garik had conned out of her before, she’d never felt anything like this when kissing Gorim. Oh, the lust was there, but there was something more in this. Something she’d tried so desperately to deny last time. 

 

Too soon for Serena’s taste, Garik pulled back, his breathing a bit uneven. “Well?” he asked, his voice husky. When Serena bit her lip, her cheeks flushing, Garik grinned slightly. “Knew you’d eventually fall for my charms.”

 

Serena scowled playfully before yanking Garik back toward her and dragging him down to the grass under them.  
  
Tira, who had been watching from behind a tree since she’d spotted them at the beginning of Serena’s confession, smiled softly and made for the camp to give the pair their privacy. The smile morphed into a mischievous grin as she plotted to tell Erin. She’d hold off on the teasing until Serena got more comfortable being with the snarky rogue. 

 

_ [End Flashback] _

 

Tira shook her head to clear it from her memories. Deciding to swallow her pride, she made her way over to their Commander. “Cousland, do you mind if I ask you something?”

 

The young human smirked slightly. “You did right there, Mahariel,” he said. Tira rolled her eyes, and sat down near the fire.

 

“Where did you learn that trick?” she asked, gesturing to the rocks in the fire.

 

“My father taught me,” Conrí said easily. “First time he took me hunting, we decided to have a taste of the deer we’d taken down. It makes things a lot easier to cook since you don’t have to worry over much about the fire burning everything. If it cracks, or breaks they’re easily replaced. Since Alistair’s last disastrous attempt at cooking,” he trailed off momentarily, remembering the disastrous attempt which had gotten the former templar banned from the chore. “We don’t have a skillet. So, until Bodahn can get another one, we make do with flat river rocks.”

 

“It’s clever,” Tira nodded. “Mind if I steal that?”

 

“A Dalish stealing a human hunting trick?” Conrí asked dryly. “Are you sure that isn’t blasphemy for your people?”

 

Tira shoved Conrí lightly with a chuckle.

 

Over where Zevran and Tristan were sparing, the Antivan elf halted mid-swing. “Um… my friend?” he asked. “Why are you glowing?”

 

Tristan looked at Zevran incredulously then looked down at his chest where the Antivan was pointing. A blue light was shining through the front of his shirt. “Oh,” Tristan mumbled and reached into the neck of his garment and pulled out the small crystal pyramid Draco had given them. “It’s never done that before.”

 

A small gust of wind greeted Tristan’s word. A second and third soon followed the first, each increasing in power. Just before Conrí could give the order to brace everything down, a large, familiar shape swooped out over the trees. Draco pulled back with a beat of his wings before landing heavily just outside the camp. “It hasn’t done that because I’ve never been this close with the enchantment active,” Draco explained with a chuckle. 

 

“Draco!” Conrí greeted. “What brings you all the way out here?”

 

Draco snorted, thin wisps of flame emanating from his nostrils. “Apparently, word got out about a dragon near the capital and a band of sword slingers decided to carve a name for themselves out of my hide. I didn’t want to kill them, so I left. After sealing away treasures of course.”

 

“So, you’re gonna tag along with us?” Garik asked. “Not that I don’t welcome a giant scaly fire-breathing engine of destruction between me and the ‘spawn, but… won’t it be hard for you to keep a low profile?”

 

“Bah,” Draco scoffed. “If I keep my head down and limit the amount of sacrifices I demand, no one will know I’m around.”

 

“Sacrifices?!” Alistair squawked.

 

Draco sighed and shook his massive head. “It was a joke, tinman.”

 

“Oh. I knew that!”

 

Conrí headslapped Alistair as he passed. “Well, provided you don’t burn the camp down, you can stay here.”

 

“I’ll resist the urge,” Draco snarked, settling in. “So, tell me. What have you been up to since we talked last?”

 

The group glanced amongst themselves and launched into the tales of what had happened in Redcliffe, Denerim and Haven.

 

“I can hardly believe it,” Draco murmured. “I’d been searching all over the bloody place for Andraste’s final resting place, and the whole time it was under my bloody nose. I figured the lot in the Frostbacks was just a bunch of dragon worshiping nutcases. But their ancestors…” Draco shook his head. “Perhaps it means little, but thank you for preserving Andraste’s ashes. After… after all she went through because of me…”

 

“Because of you?” Conrí asked. “What do you mean?”

 

Draco sighed. “Once, longer ago than I care to remember, I had a family. A mate, and seven sons. For decades, we were happy. Then… circumstances separated us, but we swore to reunite one day. Once I returned, I learned my mate had been sealed and my sons corrupted by their arrogance. An arrogance fed by the humans who revered my sons as gods. A war had broken out between my friends and family. A person I once considered a brother sealed them all away, including my mate, who had just been trying to calm both sides. I leaned later the war was instigated by my father. Between his actions against our kin and his corruption of my children, needless to say I was angry. In my rage, I ripped my father’s spirit from him physical form and cast him into the Fade, into the Black City. With the last of my strength, I sent my sons into a lasting slumber, which I intended to be broken only when I allowed it. With my strength spent, I found a cavern deep beneath the ground and joined my sons in sleep. I was awoken by a powerful and familiar pulse of magic sometime later… How long had passed since I had entered my hibernation, I truly do not know. Could have been years, decades or even centuries. When I rose, I found the scattered handful of worshipers my sons had accrued had grown exponentially. They had risen to be the most powerful nation on the continent at the time.”

 

“Tevinter,” Wynne gasped.

 

Draco nodded. “I spoke the truth when I said I was not one of the so called gods of the Tevinter Imperium. But those the magisters once revered as divine… they are my sons. The pulse of magic I’d awoken to was caused by these magister’s using a massive blood sacrifice and ripping a hole into Fade. They were searching for the Golden City, in hopes of finding my sons… what they found was the Black City. And my father. It is said the Maker banished the Magisters back to this world, twisted by their own corruption. In truth, my father thought it was fitting to make the magister’s outsides as twisted as their insides. It should have ended there… but one thing my father did not take into account was the magisters ability to spread their corruption. Thus, began the age of the darkspawn. And the first Blight… when these creatures found my first born, Dumat. Once I had seen what my beautiful son had become, I had no choice but to try and stop him. But no matter how many times I threw him down, Dumat rose again. And it broke my heart every time. Thus, I approached a group of Tevinter mages and Anders soldiers. After several years of research and trials, a new warrior was born. The order adopted the name Grey Wardens. Those willing to do whatever it took to stop the darkspawn. Once Dumat was slain for good, I left, determined to be ready should another of my sons rise. I tried to assist the Wardens whenever a new blight began, but this form didn’t lend much in the way of confidence. So, I worked from the shadows, leading them to the griffons, the one creature besides dragons known to be able to resist the Blight.

 

“After Dumat fell, I left to lick my wounds and prepare. A few decades later, I learned of a rebellion led by a young woman and her husband against the crippled Tevinter Empire. This began my time ravaging my children’s former followers. I was unable to save Andraste from her fate in Minrathous and instead turned my attention to obliterating the remaining forces holding the other kingdoms. I needn’t have bothered as Tevinter soon bowed to the demands of its populace and became followers of Andraste. The Inquisition finished what Andraste had started… then came the Chantry and they began making all new mistakes…”

 

Draco stretched his wings. “And that is my tale. All of this could rightly be called my fault. If I hadn’t been drawn away, my sons may never have been corrupted. The Blights may never have happened…”

 

“And perhaps this would have happened anyway and you’d be dead or sealed as well,” Serena said making Draco turn to her, surprise etched onto his weathered reptilian face. “You should be old enough to realize that agonizing over past regrets gets nothing done. What matters now is you’re here and helping us put a stop to this.”

 

Draco was silent for a long moment. “You may have a point, but I believe I owe you a thanks for sparing Andraste’s resting place. Conrí, as the one who made the final decision and the one who’s shouldered this responsibility admirably, I offer a gift. You said many of the Cultists had consumed dragon’s blood, yes?”

 

Conrí frowned. “Yes. It drove them insane.”  


“Ah, that is because they drank dragonling blood,” Draco pointed out. “All of the strength and ferocity, none of the control and experience to go with it. I offer you the same strength and fury of an enraged dragon along with the control and knowledge to turn these powers from a stone club, primitive and crude, to a blade made of the finest silverite. The choice, however is yours. Should you decline, I shall think of something else.”

 

Conrí was silent for a long moment. The Reavers in the temple hit harder than any opponent Conrí had faced, but that power was wild. Unfocused. If Draco spoke truly, all that power could be turned against the darkspawn and the Archdemon. “Alright. What do I need to do?” he asked.

 

“Since you’re getting this power straight from the tap, as it were, all you need is something to drink out of,” Draco told him. 

 

Conrí went to his tent and dug around for a moment. When he immerged, he was holding a silver chalice. He’d intended to sell it and had forgotten in all the excitement. “Here,” he said, holding the chalice out to Draco.

 

“The process couldn’t be more simple,” Draco rumbled, lifting a forepaw. With the claw on his ‘thumb’ he pierced the first digit on his left forepaw, releasing a red trickle. Well, a trickle for the dragon. If this amount of blood was pouring from a human, it would be considerably more dangerous. Conrí held the chalice under the stream until it had filled about halfway. Draco retracted his paw, licking the pierced digit and sealing the wound. “There will be pain, but with it will come knowledge.”

 

“Are you sure about this?” Alistair asked. “Because it might not be… they say you are what you eat and this might be a bit more than you can handle.”

 

Conrí sighed and rolled his shoulders. “If I wasn’t sure, Alistair, I wouldn’t be standing here with a goblet of dragon’s blood,” Conrí sighed and turned back to Draco, lifting the goblet in a small salute. “To your health, Draco.” With that, Conrí lifted the goblet to his lips and drained it in two heavy gulps. The flavor, while not very pleasant, was much better than the Joining or Avernus’s augmentation potion. He’d tasted his own blood in the past, from bitten tongues or bloody lips, and Draco’s blood had a similar copperish taste, with the added sensation of burning as it went down. 

 

After a last swallow, Conrí lifted a hand to his mouth to wipe his lips. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the burning liquid hit his stomach proper. He doubled over, dropping the goblet to the grass as his stomach began to burn as though he had swallowed hot coals. Leliana and Xolana both moved to assist him, but were rebuffed by Draco’s wing. “You may want to keep your distance for the moment, little ones,” he said warily. 

 

Conrí coughed and hacked as the burning spread back up his esophagus to his throat. He fell to his knees holding his abdomen. Xolana’s eyes widened as what looked like sparks of red lightning arced around Conrí’s body. The grunts of pain coming from Conrí slowly changed… becoming growls of rage. Before Xolana could ask what was happening, Conrí through his head back with a roar of rage and all hell seemed to break loose. The red lighting exploded around him, scorching the grass in a wide radius. When his roar ended Conrí’s eyes found the group with a snarling sneer, shocking them to see that the whites of his eyes had turned a deep blood red and his top and bottom canines had elongated to resemble fangs. 

 

“Control!” Draco barked. “My blood gave you ferocity and power but it also gave you the knowledge to control both!”

 

Conrí growled and his aura flared briefly, but slowly began to retract and the crimson glow began to fade from his eyes. Soon, the aura vanished altogether and his eyes returned to normal. He got to his feet slowly, his body aching. “What… what in the Maker’s name was that?”

 

“That,” Draco grunted lowering his wing. “Was the two most lethal of the Reaver’s abilities. Aura of Pain and Blood Frenzy. The pain you suffer from the Aura is avenged sevenfold to all those caught in its radius. When combined with Blood Frenzy, your strikes become more deadly. The more you bleed, the more you hurt, the more powerful you become. Use this power responsibly or it will consume you, just as it had the Reavers you fought in Haven.”

 

Conrí noddedand slowly made his way to his tent. “Are you alright?” Leliana asked.

  
“I’m fine,” Conrí growled. When Leliana flinched, mild hurt in her eyes, Conrí grimaced, kicking himself. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I intended. I’m alright, I just need some sleep.”

 

Leliana nodded with a warm smile and kissed him on the cheek. 

 

* * *

  
Over the next several weeks, Conrí worked on harnessing his new abilities while tempering the flares of aggression that came with them. As when he was afflicted with Lycanthropy, his temper was much shorter, but unlike the Brecilian Forest, the flares were much less frequent and much less intense. He would always grimace when his temper escaped him and would apologize quickly. Draco informed the group this wasn’t uncommon and would be easier with time, before flying off with a grumble of being a cold blooded creature and not a Fereldan Frostback like the beast at Haven. Sten offered to teach Conrí to meditate as he did and it was during this time in calming silence that Sten brought up the sword Conrí had retrieved from Dwyn. Asala, Sten had called it.

 

“I admit, I had nearly forgotten the feeling; completion,” the Qunari rumbled without looking up. “Were you among the Qunari, I would insist you were an Ashkari, one who seeks. Whom else could find a single lost blade in country at war?”

 

“I gave you my word, Sten,” Conrí told him, likewise not opening his eyes. “I’m not a man of idle promises.”

 

The Qunari grunted. “I have been mistaken,” he said after a pause. “You are a soldier worthy to stand among the Beresaad. I did not think so when we first met.”

 

“What changed your mind?” Conrí asked. 

 

“You did, of course,” Sten said, amusement in his tone. “There will come a day when the Qunari will send forces to conquer this land. On that day, I will not look to find you on the battlefield.” 

 

“Nor will I,” Conrí rumbled.

  
Sten’s silent radiated approval and all talk ceased until the session was over. By then, lunch was ready so the group ate quickly and set off again, reaching the foothills of the Frostback mountains at nightfall.

 

* * *

 

Conrí kept his head bowed against the wind sweeping down from the Frostbacks’ peaks. Being a native Fereldan, he was used to the cold, but even this was testing his endurance. Behind him, shivering and her breath forming puffs of smoke in the cold air, Xolana stammered out. “I-I-is it m-m-much further....?”

 

Alistair trailed behind them, grumbling pitifully about the amounts of cheese he would eat when they finally arrived in Orzammar. Next to him Leliana was also working hard to keep warm. “I'm pretty sure this is unseasonably cold, even for the Frostbacks...” she shivered. 

 

Conrí stopped suddenly and raised a hand. “Hold,” he said just loudly enough to be heard over the wind. 

 

“Please tell me we're here,” Xolana whimpered. “Please.”

 

Conrí didn’t say anything and dropped to one knee in the snow, placing his hand next to a fading paw print. “Something big came through here not long ago... Balls... To arms, now!” Before anyone could react fully through the daze of wind and cold, several large feline creatures swooped in, hissing and growling. Conrí growled and gripped his sword tight.

 

“What in the Creators' name are these things?!” Tira demanded, her bow trained on one.

 

“Red Lions,” Conrí growled, gesturing for the others to huddle together. “Do not let them separate us. They're fast, smart and will pick apart a scattered group like no other. Koun, keep them as far away from Bodahn and Sandal as you can. Kiba, Tsume, you as well.”

  
“Everyone back to back, they're circling us!” Leliana cried, drawing her first arrow back.

 

Tristan eyed the things nervously. “We can't hold them back with AoE; they're edging too close to us.”

 

“We could use that hocus pocus thing you magey types do with the on fire weapons,” Garik suggested, daggers held up in a boxing pose. 

 

“He's right,” Serena agreed, rolling her wrist to shake off the stiffness. “Beasts of most types avoid fire.” Xolana nodded and summoned up fire incantation upon everyone's weapons. Wynne called on her own magic for some protection spells around the party. Morrigan meanwhile shifted into a large brown bear and growled viciously at the lions.

 

Conrí swung his burning sword, his teeth bared. “Show no fear,” he barked. “If they sense weakness, we're in trouble. Be cautious, Morrigan. These beasts are known to take down bears your size and larger.”

 

Morrigan shifted back into a human and wielded her staff instead, still growling at the lions as though she’d stayed a bear. “Be gone, you pesky fiends!” she snarled.

 

Erin nervously twirled her weapons and watched one of the lions as it stalked not too far before her. One of the smaller lions, a younger male growled impatiently and charged. Tristan, being close enough, released a mind blast, trying to shove the lion off course. Shale ripped up a boulder from the frozen ground and smashed it into some of the older lions closer to her with a loud deafening roar. Tira loosed an arrow into the shoulder of a larger female, making the beast snarl and hiss. She quickly nocked another arrow.

 

Blair swept out her burning daggers, singeing the face of an older male while Zevran tossed a grenade, making a small group scatter to avoid the toxic cloud.

 

“It's not working! Why are they not retreating?” Xolana cried, shooting a fire blast at two beasts that circled too close.

 

Conrí gave a growl of agitation. “This pack must be used to hunting travelers. We have no choice. We must kill or wound enough to force a retreat. And even then... We must watch our backs. Shale, Sten. Keep as many back as you can. I'll try and draw a few away to give you a better chance.” He quickly pulled on the Juggernaut helm.

 

“Conrí, don't go alone, it's dangerous!” Erin cried, dashing to her brother’s side.

 

“Erin, I’m the only one with enchanted armor,” Conrí grunted, his voice muffled by the visor. “If even half the legends about this hunk of silverite are true, a few overgrown mousers won't put a dent in it.”

 

“Come back to the circle, Erin,” Tristan called. “We'll give Conrí cover!”

 

Leliana nocked another arrow. “He'll be safe,” she said, bring a large lion into her sights.

 

Biting her lip, Erin returned to the circle reluctantly. “Be careful, brother.”

 

Conrí nodded, lifting his sword again and left the circle entirely. “Oi!” he barked. “Aye, I’m talking to you; ya bunch of mangy alley cats! You want something to chew on? Then take a bite of this!” he clanked an armored fist off his breastplate before swinging his sword around his head, leaving behind a trail of flames. “What’s the matter?!” he taunted. “Not so tough when your prey doesn't cower like a frightened rabbit?!”

 

“Where I come from, we would call this insanity,” Sten rumbled. They’d had the edge over the dragon because of their numbers, keeping the beast’s attention off just a single adversary. The opposite was true here.

 

“Oh now you realize our Commander has lost his fucking marbles,” Xolana bit out. “Just marvellous. Thank you for the input,” she flung another fireball at some cats that came too close yet again.

  
The large female Tristan had deterred before charged Conrí, who ducked the lunge, pivoted on the ball of his foot and slammed the blade of his sword into the gaping maw of the lion as she turned to lunge again. Meanwhile, a flurry of arrows and spells hit the enraged lions behind her that tried to charge Conrí in revenge.

 

“Well, well,” Conrí sneered. “Seems the reputation of the fearsome Frostback Red Lions is naught but children's tales. I have more challenge with a rabid Orlesian lap dog!” A large male broke through the arrows and spells, rearing back to maul Conrí. He turned and instinctively brought up his arm. Ironically, it the same one Swiftrunner got a hold of. Leliana didn’t have an arrow ready and notched, Tira's frantic arrow missed and the mages were running low on Mana, so nothing was stopping this male from going at Conrí. Erin paniced and jumped toward them, weapons at the ready and shouting a war cry.

 

Conrí took the brunt of the cat's weight and stayed standing, the sound of teeth scratching on metal filling the clearing. “What’s the matter, kitty?” Conrí hissed. “Can't get a good taste?!” curling his other hand into a fist, he slugged the Lion in the jaw, sending it sprawling in the snow.

 

Erin stopped and sighed in relief before being speared by a smaller lion. She screamed in pain as its jaws locked around her thigh, blood already pouring into the snow. Desperately, she punched at the lion's head as it sank its fangs deeper.

 

“Erin!” Tira screamed, trying to run out, but was held back by Serena. “Get out of my way, Aeducan!”

 

“You're of no use to her dead!” Serena barked. “Commander!”

 

Conrí was already on the move, grabbing the lion's upper jaw and, in a move that would be sheer insanity to anyone else, another hand slipped between the lower jaw and Erin's thigh and he began prying the jaws apart. Garik ran up and shoved a dagger into the beast's neck since it was wide open while being distracted like this, finally allowing Conrí to pry the jaws open completely. Conrí tossed the cat’s corpse aside and began putting pressure on the wounds in Erin's thigh. “Shale! Get Wynne over here now!”

  
Shale bashed through a few lions, crippling them, with Wynne right behind it. Xolana and Tristan covered Wynne's journey from behind and kept the flaming weapons going. “I have to stabilize her before she can be moved lest she go into shock,” Wynne informed Conrí before taking a long drink from her lyrium flask.

 

“Do it,” Conrí growled. “Shale, I need you to keep these bastards off them,” the golem nodded, roaring a challenge at the lions at it advanced towards them. “Sten! Aeducan! I was just going to chase these beasts off. Now... We make this pack extinct!”

 

Xolana and Tristan flanked Wynne from one side, protecting her and Erin whilst also offering some Mana to Wynne in case she needed to drain more, while Shale protected them from the other side. Serena and Tira stormed over to Conrí, followed by Sten, both women ready to swing battleaxe and fly arrow after arrow at the beasts. Conrí turned his attention back to the lions and charged with a roar that would make a dragon’s teeth quake as he lost himself in the red haze of the Reaver’s rage.

 

* * *

 

Xolana panted heavily as the last lion fell dead, completely drained of mana by now. “Is it... over? Was that the last of them?” she wheezed.

 

Wynne was still highly concentrated on the healing, though it seemed Erin was stabilizing, and didn’t answer.

 

“Oh Maker...” Leliana muttered, realizing she would've only had one more arrow in her quiver after this.

Conrí, breathing heavily, let the rest of the battle-lust fade. “Anyone else hurt?” he asked roughly. Besides Shale grumbling about one of her stones getting slightly chipped, everyone else was tired, but fine. Conrí nodded. “Good. Wynne, can she be moved?”

 

“Yes,” Wynne sighed wearily. “We had better get her into the back of Bodahn’s cart and keep her warm. She's lost a lot of blood.”

 

“Alright,” said Conrí as he moved toward Erin to lift her into the back, but Tira beat him to it. Conrí’s eyebrows rose. “You’re stronger than you look, Mahariel.” Tira nodded distractedly and helped Erin into the back of the cart and wrapped her in the thick bear hide they'd been using as extra blankets. “The rest of you, we have a lot of meat, pelts and teeth here. Since we don't have an unlimited coin supply and our fresh food is running low... get to work,” he grabbed one and dragged it over to Shale. “Really quick, Shale. I wanted to apologize for the order I barked.”

 

“Hm,” the Golem rumbled, seemingly having forgotten this. “Since the situation did not leave much room for courtesy, I will ignore it this once.”

 

Tristan eyed one particularly mauled beast critically. “Is this pelt even going to get us so much as a copper?”

 

“Its Red Lion Fur,” Serena supplied, her belt knife easily separating pelt from flesh and bone. “Even a scrap of it will fetch a mint in Orzammar.”

 

Tristan whistled appreciatively, eying the fur in a new light. "Well then. Come on Amell, help me with this one.”

 

“Yes, dad,” Xolana groaned.

 

After about twenty minutes of work, Conrí rolled up the last pelt. “Alright, we have fifteen pelts. I think we should have a few of them made into cloaks. At the risk of sounding cliché, winter is coming and these wool cloaks won't cut it in the Frostbacks or even southern Fereldan.”

 

“Yes. Please. I'm freezing.” Xolana implored in a somewhat whiny tone.

 

Morrigan scoffed. “You are dressed in more clothes than I.”

 

“Yes, I'm aware,” Xolana snipped. “And it's only one of the many reasons why I think you're insane.”

 

“Now, now, ladies...” Tristan tried to pacify the bristling women but then scuffled away as they turned to hiss at him.

 

Conrí, already irritable, let out a low lupine growl that made even Tsume crouch and place her tail firmly between her legs. Everyone immediately hushed and stopped arguing. Conrí swept a glare over the group before turning back to the cart and climbing in. Everyone stayed stock still for a moment, then glanced at each other uneasily before silently getting to work, making sure that everything was safely packed away and ready to keep going.

 

In the cart, Erin was a bit out of it but mostly lucid. She smiled when Conrí sat next to her across from Tira. “Well, it sounds like I missed the hard work,” she said, her voice low and raspy.

 

“You did. And by the way,” Conrí tapped her gently on the forehead, reminiscent of his normal head slap. “Don’t ever do that again.”

 

Erin chuckled. “I don't plan on it.”

 

“Good. I got you this, though,” Conrí pulled a long canine from the pouch at his waist. “Not an exact parallel of the phrase, but a little tooth from the cat that bit ya.”

 

Tira sat stroking through Erin's hair carefully and silently throughout the exchange, still pale as if she'd seen a ghost. Outside, everyone was still going about their business as quietly as they could until, eventually, Wynne carefully peaked her head into the cart.

 

“I would check on her again briefly to make sure she's ready for travel,” she said. “Then it would appear we're ready to go.”

 

Conrí nodded. “We should reach the gates within a few hours. Keep still and warm until we can get you inside.”

 

Erin rolled her eyes but gave a dismissive. “Fine, fine,” and settled in.

 

Wynne got in as Conrí exited and carefully removed the bear fur just from Erin’s leg area so she could check the wound again. Wynne looked up to ask Tira to give them some room, but was met with a cool glare. The old lady pursed her lips disapprovingly, but allowed Tira to remain. Conrí climbed back off the cart. “Alright, make sure we have everything. When Wynne gives the word, we move for Orzammar. We'll finally be out of this blasted wind.” Everyone nodded gratefully, but no one really knew what to say

 

Conrí frowned. “We’ve been lucky so far. Short of my issues in the forest, we've avoided any real major injuries, even against the false Andraste. If this proves anything, it proves we aren't invincible. Stay alert, and try to avoid repeating this.”

 

“So Erin will, uh, be ok, right?” Alistair asked awkwardly.

 

Xolana stabbed an elbow into his side and hissed, “Of course she will.”

 

“It's a valid question, Xol,” Tristan said fairly. “But Wynne knows what she's doing.”

 

“Erin will be fine,” Conrí said firmly. “Make sure we have everything. And keep an eye on the trees. There's no guarantee this was the whole pack. Everyone have their pelts? The meat is already loaded and the teeth are in sacks.” Sten strapped down the last fur and then nodded. Everyone was ready to go.

 

“Wynne,” Conrí called back to the cart. “She safe to travel?”

 

Wynne finished inside and came out nodding. “Yes. The quicker we get her into a proper bed, though, the better. She lost a lot of blood and mending so much flesh took a lot of energy out of her, and she's not completely healed yet, either.”

 

“Okay. Let's get going. Bodahn. Keep the cart from jostling around too much."

 

“As you say, Warden,” Bodahn smiled warily. “The path from here is well traveled and should be fairly smooth.”

 


	33. Orzammar

 

“Veata!” A guard barked as he stood in front of the group, a hand on the axe at his belt. He was glaring daggers Garik and Serena. “What insult do you two pay us by returning? I should have both of you in irons!”

 

“Lay a hand on either of my Wardens...” Conrí said coolly. “And the moment will be your last, guardsman.”

 

The guard scoffed. “The Wardens took in a Brand and an exile? I thought that was a joke.”

 

“Far from it,” Serena deadpanned. 

 

“Here I was happy to finally be warm again, and then we get such a chilling welcome?” Xolana snarked.

 

“I'll admit, that's cold. Real cold,” Tristan added.

 

“Chilled me right back to the bones,” Xolana went on.

 

“Not much love left for our dwarves, it seems,” Tristan crossed his arms.

 

“Oh will you two ever shut up,” Morrigan snapped irritably. 

 

The guard grit his teeth. “Cause trouble again, exile, and I’ll see you in chains. Warden or not.”

 

Conrí, having heard enough, seized the guard by the breastplate and yanked the poor dwarf off his feet to be held nose to nose with the Reaver. During the trip from Redcliffe, he’d discovered he could use his abilities to alter his appearance slightly. His canine teeth would elongate slightly and his eyes would turn a bloody crimson. “Apparently I was vague,” he said, his pitch dropping to a low, draconic rumble. “So sorry. I will clarify. Barring being caught red handed, if you or anyone else harasses my Wardens while in Orzammar, I will personally dip them headfirst into a lava sink. Do I make myself clear, guardsman?”

 

The guard swallowed hard and nodded. “A... Aye, Warden... Ser.”

 

“Good,” Conrí dropped the guard to the ground at his feet, his appearance smoothly changing back. “We will show ourselves to the Warden Hostel. Have a pleasant evening.”

 

“You know, this is what I like about you,” Zevran snickered. “Take no nonsense. Yay team.” 

 

Xolana, usually quick with a snarky comment, was far too scared herself to say anything for a change. She was just hoping she never ended up at the receiving end of this treatment. Conrí’s normal glares were chilling enough.

 

Leliana put a soothing hand on Conrí’s arm. “Come now, Conrí. Erin needs rest.”

 

Conrí nodded and glanced back at Shale, who was cradling a slightly delirious Erin. “This way. It’s just inside the Diamond Quarter.”

  


Koun kicked some dirt at the still prone guard as the group all turned to follow Conrí, earning himself a cheeky wink and a pet from most of the party.  


 

Coming to a large building just off the Commons, Conrí pulled a small key out of his breastplate. “Welcome to the Warden Hostel,” he said, unlocking the door. “Get comfortable. We have a long day tomorrow.”

 

Xolana helped Wynne and Tira get Erin to a comfortable bed with water and blankets and anything else she might need, including numerous poultices and potions.

 

“There are enough rooms for everyone,” Conrí gestured to the two beds occupying each room. “Baths are a bit small but they work.”

 

“It's great, Conrí. Don't worry about it,” Leliana assured him.

 

Alistair stretched out his limbs and started removing his heavy plate armor. “Didn't think I'd see this place again so soon...”

 

Garik shoved Alistair off a bed just as he sat down. “This one’s mine, tin man,” he said.

 

“Hey!” Alistair cried indignantly.

 

“Children, play nice,” Conrí said wearily, but the pair ignored him and began to scuffle. Conrí sighed and walked over, lifting both by the back of the collar. “Do I have to put you two in a corner?”

 

They both shook their heads like terrified kittens at the memory of how Conrí confronted the guard earlier. Morrigan cackled gleefully and Sten just shook his head and went about his business as usual. 

 

“Good,” Conrí dropped them and set his pack on a bed in a room towards the back of the barracks before removing the Juggernaut armor. When he finished, he noticed that Serena was sitting at a window, glaring out at the Royal Palace. Conrí sat next to her and glanced out the window. “Not easy being back here, eh?”

 

Serena grumbled for a bit but then sighed. “Tell me about it,” she mumbled.

 

Conrí nodded and pulled out his hip flask, handing it to Serena. “Don’t tell Garik. I'll never hear the end of it.”

 

Serena looked at the flask for a moment in silence and then looked back up at Conrí. “Dwarven?” she asked.

 

“No,” Conrí shook his head. “Highever Whiskey.”

 

Serena chuckled humorlessly. “Next best thing I suppose. Thank you,” she grabbed the metal container and took a large swill.

 

“I'm gonna need you to take point here,” Conrí said, taking the flask back. “I've never dealt with Orzammar politics and exile or not, these dwarves are far more likely to listen to you than Garik.”

 

Serena shook her head with a deep sigh. “No... No they won't. You have to be the one doing the talking. I can try and help you, give you a crash course, but if you want to find any help at all in Orzammar, the words will have to come from you.”

 

“Really?” Conrí raised his eyebrow. “So, if the rumors are true, your brother and some old deshyr named Harrowmont are after the throne. From the little I’ve heard, your brother sounds like better king material.”

 

Serena made a disgusted noise. “Yeah, he certainly knows to play the politics well, I'll give him that.”

 

“Not a popular stance with some of the old Conservatives. More trade with the surface, more rights for the casteless. Heard he even had a kid with a casteless woman.”

 

“That doesn’t make him a good king,” Serena said with a growl.

 

“Fair enough,” Conrí shrugged. “What about Harrowmont? Very conservative. All for the caste system. All for isolating Orzammar from the surface. For keeping the fight with darkspawn all to your people.”

 

“Harrowmont has his head in the right place but he's too old and set in his ways to see that Orzammar can't stay isolated,” said Serena with a grumble. “We need to finally integrate ourselves more with the surface world, but that will never happen with him.”

 

“So. Where does that leave Orzammar?” Conrí prodded. “If we have to get involved — and it’s looking like we will — who do we back?” Serena remained silent, but was clearly getting more and more angry with her thoughts. Conrí sighed and leaned against the window frame. “Can I be blunt with you?”

 

Serena looked up and nodded tensely.

 

Conrí looked out the window. “If I had to, I would work with Howe if it meant stopping this Blight and saving my home.”

 

Serena looked like the wind has been taken out of her sails and stared dejectedly out of the window for a while before saying anything again. “I....” she sighed. “I just...” she knew Conrí hated Howe as much as if not more than the darkspawn themselves. If he was willing… After a few more moments, she finally brought herself to say it properly. “He was a lousy brother, in the end, but Bhelen would make the better king.”

 

“Look, I’m not asking you to trust him, forgive him or hell, even like him,” Conrí sat up. “But he can save this city from extinction by its own traditions. And he's much more likely to send sufficient troops topside. Nobles like Harrowmont like to say they respect the order, but they'd rather keep their troops close to home rather than live up to a promise with a surface order.”

 

“You're... you're right,” Serena grunted out the response as if in pain to admit it.

 

“Um, Commander?” Bodahn approached the pair, chagrined to interrupt. “There's a young woman at the door, asking for you and Messere Brosca.”

 

Garik poked his head out from under his bed as Conrí nodded. “Show her in if you don't mind,” he said.

 

Serena raised an eyebrow. “Who would...?” she started, but froze when a young dwarven woman with dark auburn hair comes in.

 

“Ancestors saggy left nut, Rica?!” Garik exclaimed. “Is that you under all those jewels?”

 

Serena jumped up, infuriated as she recognized the woman she ran into outside Bhelen’s room all those months ago. “You…!”

 

Rica’s eyes widened. “Oh no... Garik, why is the princess here?”

 

Garik looked back at Serena who’s face had contorted in rage. “Hey, easy, Princess. She's my sister. Calm down.”

 

Serena started absolutely fuming. “My asshole brother's concubine is your sister!?”

 

“Wait, what?” Garik frowned, puzzled and turned back to Rica. “Bhelen was your... Patron?”

 

Rica nodded. “I didn't want to mention-. You never answered why she's here. I heard she was exiled. “

 

“Well, technically so was I,” Garik scratched the back of his head. “But I’m a Grey Warden now and so is she.”

 

Serena’s voice was cold as ice. “What are you doing here. Did my brother send you!?”

 

“N-no, I heard the Grey Wardens had returned,” Rica mumbled. “We'd heard about Ostagar and... I wanted to see if Garik was one of the Wardens who had survived.”

 

Garik put a hand on Serena's shoulder. “Calm down, love,” he said quietly.

 

Serena stared Rica down for a few more moments and then returned angrily to her place by the window and glared out it, though she continued paying very close attention to the continuing conversation.

 

“Don't take that personally, Miss Rica,” Conrí said diplomatically. “Serena and Bhelen, well, didn't part on good terms, as I’m sure you know.”

 

Rica nodded nervously and swallowed. “I-I was wondering if, perhaps, you'd consider supporting Bhelen's claim, but that can wait, I suppose. You could at least come to see my son, Garik. He's getting big so fast.” Serena scoffed but stayed silent otherwise.

 

Xolana jumped in at the wrong moment, as per usual. “Garik, you’re an uncle!? Why didn’t you tell us!?” she gushed with excitement.

 

“I didn't know!” Garik protested. “I've been on the surface with you lunatics for the better part of the last year!”

 

“Oh,” Xolana mumbled. “Lame.”

 

Wynne cleared her throat to quiet her fellow mage. “Let them talk, Xolana.”

 

Conrí glanced over his shoulder at Serena. “We’ve heard quite a bit about what's been going on in Orzammar since we arrived a few hours ago. Normally, Grey Wardens would try to avoid political entanglements, but at this point, Bhelen does seem to be the better candidate. Even Serena agrees.”

 

“She does?” Garik and Rica said at the same time, both equally shocked.

 

“Reluctantly, I’ll admit,” Conrí allowed. “Harrowmont will destroy Orzammar, all to keep traditions alive simply because they're traditions. Not the least of which would be a reluctance to send troops to the surface.”

 

“So, you support Bhelen because he's more likely to support you?” Rica asked, skeptically.

 

Conrí shrugged. “I'm a practical man, Miss Rica.”

 

“Anyone with the slightest bit of sense could see that the Grey Wardens must be supported or this Blight will be the end of us all,” Morrigan sneered.

 

“If Bhelen is more likely to get us the support we need...” Tristan trailed off.

 

“Of course, of course,” Rica ducked her head. “I did not mean to suggest-. I merely sought clarification.”

 

“Morrigan, stop glaring at my sister,” Garik grumped. “You'll get wrinkles.”

 

The rest of the night consisted mainly of Garik catching up with his sister and gaining more insight into the current state of Orzammar. Once Rica left, everyone turned in, Garik joining Serena, who he knew was still miffed. She didn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her, however.  


 

* * *

 

“Hm. Metal and molten rock,” Garik sighed a few mornings later as the group headed towards the Assembly chamber. Erin had finally gotten cleared by Wynne to be up and about after being bedridden for the last few days. “I had almost forgotten that smell.”

 

“Home sweet home I take it?” Xolana asked. “I wasn't sure how you would feel about coming back here.”

 

“Mixed I suppose,” Garik shrugged. “But it's better than Serena feels,” he added, looking over at the mentioned dwarf. The exiled princess was standing next to the balcony looking up at the statues of Paragons carved into the high ceiling, seemingly lost in thought.

 

“Do you think we should maybe just leave her to it?” Xolana said in a stage whisper to Garik.

 

“You'll get lost, Xolana,” Serena sighed. “Garik doesn't really know his way around anywhere but Dust Town.”

 

“Oh. She was awake. My bad,” Xolana grinned at Garik.

 

Conrí head-slapped Xolana and Garik as he passed. “Come on, we need to get to the Assembly.”

 

“Why did I get hit, I didn't say anything!” Garik immediately protested, rubbing the spot.

 

“You were going to,” Conrí shot back.

 

Garik went to argue, but stopped even as he opened his mouth. “Sod.”

 

Xolana grumbled something about fire and interesting body contortions under her breath as she rubbed the back of her head.

 

“You say something, Xolana?” Conrí asked.

 

“Oh, no sir, all good,” said Xolana with a bright and chipper smile, but the moment Conrí turned his head, Xolana glared at him and stuck her tongue out.

 

“I thought you found a better use for that the other night,” Conrí snickered as Leliana giggled next to him.

 

Xolana gave a smug smirk. “Well yes that too but-,” she stopped. “Hold on, do you have eyes in the back of your head or something?!”

 

“No, I just know how you work, Xolana,” Conrí smirked.

 

Xolana gave a humoring sigh of defeat. “What can I say, I'm a creature of habit.”

 

Leliana slipped an arm around Xolana’s waist and hugged the mage. “And we love you for it.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Tristan smirked.

 

Xolana returned the bard’s hug and stuck her tongue out at Tristan. “Little sourpuss. If you didn't love me, why would you put up with me?”

 

“Because I exist to torment you,” Tristan droned.

 

Xolana gave a hearty laugh. “You just try dear,” she smirked and flicked a finger quickly to light a brief but powerful spark on Tristan’s ass.

 

“Ow!” Tristan covered his backside. “Only Morrigan is allowed to do that!”

 

Xolana raise her hands defensively. “Hey I didn't touch you, not my fault when my magic develops a mind of its own sometimes.”

 

“I hope you do not expect me to defend your honor, Tristan,” Morrigan snickered cruelly. 

 

“Role reversal, I like it,” Xolana chuckled. “Is that your role-play in bed, too? Is that your thing, Tristy?” Tristan glared at his longtime friend.

 

“Too much information, Xolana,” Erin drawled.

 

“Ok, ok, too far, I apologize,” Xolana still had an arm around Leliana's shoulders and squeezed a bit. “Some people are just so sensitive.”

 

“It's a sad truth of life, dear,” Leliana sighed.

 

“So,” Xolana turned her attention back towards Conrí, Serena and Garik towards the head of the group. “Are we going to know where we're going anytime soon or…?”

 

“There,” Serena pointed to the Assembly Building. “We need to talk to Steward Bandelor. If anyone knows what's going on, it's him.”

 

“Is that, ‘talk’ or ‘talk’?” Xolana asked with a smirk.

 

Serena looked back at Xolana with a disgusted expression. “He's old enough to be my grandfather!” she protested loudly.

 

Xolana’s expression turned to shock and disgust herself. “Holy, no! No! I meant violence, damnit! Get your mind out of the gutter, woman!” the mage barked with a horrified look.

 

“What was I supposed to expect from the queen of sexual innuendos?!” Serena demanded.

 

“Well I suppose I can see why you would think that,” Xolana allowed.

 

“Thank you!” Serena cried. “Let's go before I succumb to the urge to vomit.”

 

“Vomit? Now you're overreacting,” Xolana laughed.

 

“Slightly.”

 

“I sense a lot of hostility aimed at our little group,” Zevran said as they neared the largest building in the Diamond Quarter.

 

“Are you trying to make us paranoid or is there really danger?” Xolana asked.

 

“It's not directed at us,” Serena grumped. “It's directed at me and Brosca.”

 

Xolana smiled amiably. “I dunno, I'd say that's directed at all of us. I don't see much difference there. We're a family now, after all.”

 

“Well, you're with a casteless who defiled the Proving and a ‘Kin slayer’,” Serena shook her head.

 

“Serena,” Xolana stopped smiling and looked at the dwarf very seriously. “I know I make the most inappropriate of jokes at times, but what I'm about to say to you is deadly serious,” she waited until she definitely had Serena and Garik's attention. “I don't care who they think you are and what they think you've done. All I see before me is two dwarves and Grey Wardens who have more than earned my respect and companionship. And I'm glad to call you two my friends. There is no one but this group of people,” Xolana looked around at all of the group now. “That I would rather be travelling and fighting beside.”

 

Serena smiled sadly. “Thank you Xolana. I appreciate that, don't think I don't. Still, the fact of the matter is, with what happened before the two of us left Orzammar, our time here is not going to be easy. My title of Grey Warden won't make people forget what I was banished for.”

 

“And there's not a whole lot of hiding what I did. I was unmasked in front of the whole Warrior caste,” Garik added.

 

“Correct me if I'm wrong but we are all fighting the Darkspawn,” Xolana crossed her arms. “The Dwarves should be on our side and be willing to ‘overlook’ your circumstances even more readily than any other race in that respect.”

 

“You'd think so,” Garik sneered. “But the Nobles have a stick up their collective butt. A stick called 'Tradition.' Hell, they won't even send us casteless to fight the 'spawn. Say it's too much of an honor for trash like us.”

 

“You know, I was really looking forward to finally seeing Orzammar,” Xolana shook her head. “But I think I've changed my mind. We can go home now.”

 

“Oh, they'll be nice and polite to our faces,” Garik growled. “And to the rest of you it might even be genuine.”

 

“Leliana, do you remember when you tried to explain the inner workings of Orlesian politics?” Serena asked.

 

“Yes?” Leliana asked, warily.

 

“The Grand Game, they call it? Compared to Orzammar, the Grand Game is just that,” Serena shook her head. “A game.”

 

Xolana grumbled something about two-faced bitches as they continued on to the Assembly. “The Assembly is in session,” said the outer guard. “Enter quietly if you wish to observe.”

 

* * *

 

After speaking briefly with Steward Bandelor, Rica and Bhelen’s second in command Vartag Gavorn, the group left the Assembly chamber, having agreed to deliver proof Harrowmont had swindled two important members of the Assembly. As they headed back towards the commons Leliana decided to steer the conversation to much more pleasant topics. “Conrí, Erin, if you don’t mind me asking, how did your parents meet? I understand they fought against Orlais during the Occupation.”

 

Conrí smiled slightly. “Well, at first it wasn’t the storybook romance you’re picturing, Leliana,” he chuckled. “Have you ever heard the chantey, ‘The Soldier and the Seawolf?’”

 

“Oh, yes,” Leliana gushed. “I loved that one!”

 

“Well, it was written about my mother and father,” Conrí snickered. 

 

“No!” Leliana giggled. “Is that true?!”

 

“Maker’s truth,” Erin raised her hand in oath with a small laugh. “Apparently their rows were legendary, leaving hardened sea dogs cowering like rabbits whenever one would start. You remember Ronan? The crusty old sailor we sent the Hawkes with? He was her first mate and delighted in sharing the whole tale. My mother was the youngest daughter of Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig of the Storm Coast, a famous raider who was known as the Storm Giant. The old adage is that all Sons and Daughters of Highever were born on the sea, but with my mother it was even more true. Of Fearchar’s four children, my mother was by far the most skilled. Andraste’s ass, by fifteen she had already sank her first Orlesian frigate. Her galley, the Mistral, quickly became infamous among the Orlesian Navy for capturing and sinking their vessels. She became so feared, the Orlesian sailors began calling her the Seawolf.”

 

“When Maric finally reclaimed Denerim from Meghren, Fearchar knew the Orlesians would try to reclaim the city by sea,” Conrí continued. “He called for any able bodied soldier in the region to bolster his fleet in preparation for the coming attack. The crew on each of his ships doubled and those who had no sea legs stayed on the beach to protect the ships from the shore of the Waking Sea. My father was one of those men and led a detachment of men from the decks of the Mistral. Apparently his and my mother’s first meeting went so badly that it was immortalized in ‘The Soldier and the Seawolf.’ It’s still sung to this day, mostly in Highever and the Storm Coast. Once the pair assisted in keeping Denerim from the Orlesians, they became good friends. Not long after the battle, however, my grandfather, William Cousland, died of an illness. As William’s only son, my father had to deliver his father’s remains to Highever from South Reach.When Father arrived at Highever, the nobles were practically tripping over themselves to swear fealty to him after our family had been gone for nearly seventy years. Many of Amaranthine’s freeholders did the same rather than to Howe, which complicated my father’s ascension to Teyrn.

 

“It took him four months to claim his seat as teyrn of Highever,” Erin went on. “And every day as he waited he sent a letter to my mother, some days even sending more than one. They finally met again at King Maric’s formal coronation in Denerim.”

 

Conrí let out a bark like laugh. “Maric told me once that my father proposed that very day, reciting ‘The Soldier and the Seawolf’, aiming for all ten stanzas. He only got to three before Mother accepted, in her words, if only to keep him from continuing. Father liked to joke that with her nickname, she was destined to be a Cousland. ‘The Seawolf took her rightful place among the Wolves of the North.’”

 

“They were married for almost thirty years,” Erin chuckled. “And they still fought. Arl Bryland, an old friend of the family would laugh himself to tears whenever they would start during his visits. ‘Some things never change,’ he’d say.”

 

Leliana giggled behind her hand. It was nice to see the twins able to laugh and tell stories about their parents without pain twisting their faces. The meeting they had with their parents’ shades in the Temple of Sacred ashes had done them a world of good. Without the weight of their guilt, the pair could remember the good times fondly. A few months prior, Leliana wouldn’t have dared ask the question that led this heartwarming and amusing story. 

 

“They fought, but I know they loved each other,” Conrí went on. “After twenty-eight years, my father still held my mother’s hand. I said, ‘Ma. Come on, he’s yelling but he loves you. He’s still holding you hand.’”

 

“She turned to Conrí,” Erin giggled. “And said in the most prim voice I’ve ever heard, ‘Mhm. Because he’s afraid I’m going to hit him.’”

 

“My father turned to me with that look only a married man or woman can give,” Conrí chuckled. “That look that’s an odd mix of amusement, contentment and irritation.”

 

The stories continued as the group made their way back to the Commons. Once they had resupplied and found Lord Helmi at Tapsters, they headed towards the Mines, and the Deep Roads. Serena swallowed hard. They were headed to the old Aeducan Thaig. The very place Trian died and she had been sealed in to join him.

 

“What’s this, a human? Did we even make these tunnels big enough for humans?” the dwarven veteran in charge of the gates leading down into the Deep Roads asked of his men as Serena and the others approached, eliciting a few soft chuckles of amusement. Most of the group was staying behind, but Erin, Leliana and Garik had insisted on coming with Conrí and Serena.

 

Xolana, Tristan and Morrigan had holed up in the Shaperate, studying as much as they could of the dwarven knowledge of darkspawn, the Deep Roads and history of the fallen empire. The serious work was broken up a few times, especially when Xolana had stumbled across a book of poems written by a Paragon called Seuss. The blood mage stifled her snickers at the sheer absurdity of Paragon Seuss’s language, lest she offend the Shaper or someone else who took such things far too seriously. 

 

Alistair, Blair, Tira, Zevran and Shale were charged with gathering supplies and making sure they got the best price for the Red Lion pelts. Shale was there to ensure no one tried to hassle the trio of elves and lone human, though after a while this seemed unnecessary as many merchants were almost tripping over themselves to make an offer on the pelts. They sold about half of the pelts and commissioned a number of heavy cloaks to be made from the skins remaining. The tailor that they’d asked looked about ready to faint when presented with the rolled up pelts and request for the garments.

 

Wynne was likewise looking for tasks that might either increase the contents of their coin purse or at least raise their standing in the city. According to the old mage, her excursions in the Commons and the libraries of the Shaperate had already seen her offer to help a girl eager to send a message to the Circle of Magi asking to be allowed to study at Kinloch Hold, assist the daughter of an impoverished noble house recover patents of nobility or other such proofs of her noble status from the ruins of the House’s thaig in the Deep Roads and recover a tome of lore stolen from the Shaperate, tasks that Wynne argued would likely be of benefit either financially or in terms of earning the gratitude of two of the most important bodies in dwarven society. Wary that, once news that the Wardens had allied with the Aeducans became public knowledge, those loyal to House Harrowmont might express their displeasure by openly attacking the Wardens and their companions, Conrí had requested Sten accompany Wynne on her travels. If the Qunari felt any discomfort or distaste for being reduced to a bodyguard, he gave no sign.

 

“I’m sorry; I can’t allow you beyond this point. Orzammar cannot risk its honored guests on casual visits to the Deeps. And I’ve heard of no new patrols scheduled to leave today.”

 

“Are darkspawn the only danger in the tunnels?” Erin asked.

 

“Course not!” the commander replied. “Down here you’re bound to run into giant spiders, deep stalkers and all other kinds of vermin!”

 

“Deep stalkers?” Conrí questioned; he still remembered old Aldous’s lessons on natural history well, and this didn’t sound like any sort of animal he’d ever heard of.

 

“Ugly beasts, they are,” the dwarf replied with a grimace. “Walk on two legs, but they’ve the head of a worm, and hunt in packs. Be careful, they’re not afraid to take on a group their own size.”

 

“Are there no dwarves past this point?”

 

“A few scavengers,” the Commander shrugged indifferently. “And a few Legion of the Dead outposts, fools that they are.”

 

“Legion of the Dead? I’ve heard that name before,” Conrí said, remembering a tale told to him long ago, not by his tutor, but by his father.

 

“An independent company of soldiers. They take no commands but their own and swear their only goal is a glorious death. Anyone can join, regardless of their crimes — or sanity,” the Commander finished with a snort and Conrí nodded in recognition, more from his father’s old stories of King Maric and Queen Rowan emerging from the Deep Roads after escaping the disastrous slaughter at West Hill in the company of a band of dwarven veterans from the Legion of the Dead, dwarves whose skill at arms, stalwart determination and near-suicidal courage had helped in a great many battles to turn the tide against the Orlesians in the latter stages of the rebellion.

 

“Anyway, that’s why I can’t allow you past this point,” the dwarf persisted but Serena was not so easily perturbed. 

 

“Perhaps this will move things along,” Serena added, holding out the sheaf of paper Lady Dace had given them to show at the front lines. “We’re on business for Prince Bhelen. We need to find Lord Dace.”

 

The companions waited patiently while the Mines Commander looked over his paperwork. After a moment the man nodded reluctantly, and handed the papers back. “I see you have his daughter’s seal, so I will not stop you,” he said. “But be careful,” the Commander added warningly. “Just because the beasts have pulled back from Orzammar doesn’t mean there are any fewer in the tunnels. Either we finally have the edge, which I doubt, or the beasts are building up numbers for their next attack.”

 

“Actually, they’ve made their move – on the surface,” Garik interjected, provoking outcries of shock and horror from the guards listening to the conversation.

 

“The surface!” one of the soldiers exclaimed incredulously. “But I thought the vermin never went up that far except...”

 

“Except during Blights,” the Mines Commander cut him off, looking grim, and gave the four Grey Wardens a questioning look. The curt nod Conrí gave him was all the confirmation the dwarf needed. “Ancestors save us if that’s what’s happening now,” the Mines Commander groused, and ordered his men to step aside, allowing the Wardens and company past the checkpoint and into the bowels of the earth.

 

* * *

 

“You pulled us from a tight spot, friend. You have my gratitude. I am Lord Anwer Dace. So, what brings a band so small into the Deep Roads?” he asked, looking with pointed curiosity at the odd assortment of companions.

 

“You might want to take a look at these,” Serena told him, holding out the promissory notes for the lord’s inspection.

 

“I don’t understand. What could ...?” Lord Dace began, as he took the proffered papers and ran his gaze over their content. He stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing as an angry scowl split his face. “These are the terms of a deal we made with Lord Harrowmont, but, the charlatan! He’s promised the exact same land to Helmi! Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I owe you twice now, my life and my house’s fortune.”

 

Serena smiled and bowed out of courtesy. “I am glad I could be of service,” she said.

 

“May the ancestors smile on you,” Lord Dace said. “I remember you, though. You have little reason to love Bhelen, and yet your actions would bring him benefit? Regardless, I must return to Orzammar; my men need healing and I wish to investigate this further. Do you wish to travel with us?”

 

“Sure, safety in numbers right?” Serena agreed in an attempt at levity, though she didn’t feel any. The last time she’d been in this Thaig — well, it didn’t matter anymore.

 

As the group trudged back the way they came, Leliana helping to patch up Lord Dace’s wounded men, Lord Dace himself turned to Conrí. “I remember you, lad. A few of my men joined your fellows during the last big push into the Deeps.”

 

“Yes, I remember. They were lead by Brogan, no?” Conrí inquired.

 

“Aye, a good lad and a fine warrior, if a mite brash,” Dace nodded. “When he returned, he mentioned something about you lot singing as you went, not seeming to be worried about attracting the ‘spawn.”

 

“Grey Wardens can sense Darkspawn from miles off depending on how long we’ve been part of the order,” Conrí explained. “It’s nigh impossible for the ‘spawn to sneak up on us.”

 

“Ah, that explains a lot,” Dace grew contemplative for a long moment. “Would you be willing to share a song or two? It may help pass the time.”

 

Conrí looked back at the others and shrugged. 

 

Erin smirked and took the lead. “As we were out a-hunting,” she sang, her tone surprisingly light. “One morning in the spring, both hounds and horses running well, made the hills and the valleys ring. But to our great misfortune, no fox there could be found. Our huntsmen cursed and swore but still, no fox moved over the ground. And up spoke our master huntsman, the master of the chase,” Erin nudged Conrí with a sly grin, who rolled his eyes but continued where Erin left off.

 

“’If only the Witch herself'd come by, we'd run her such a race.’ And up there sprung like lightening, a fox from out of her hole. Her fur was the color of a starless night and her eyes like burning coals. And they chased her over the valley. And they chased her over the fields. And they chased her down to the riverbank, but never would she yield.”   
  
“And she jumped into the water,” Leliana continued. “And she swam to the other side, and she laughed so hard that the greenwood shook and then she turned to the hunt and cried, ‘Ride on my gallant huntsmen, when must I come again? For you shall never want for a fox to chase all over the glen. And when your need is greatest, just call upon My Name. And I will come and you shall have the best of sport and game.’”   
  
“Well the men looked up in wonder,” Erin picked up. “All the hounds running back to hide, for the fox had changed to the Witch herself where she stood on the other side. And the men, the hounds, the horses, went flying back to town. And hot on their heels came a little black fox, laughing as she ran.”   
  
“‘Ride on my gallant huntsmen, when must I come again?’” the trio began the final part of the song. “For you shall never want for a fox to chase all over the glen. And when your need is greatest, just call upon My Name. And I will come and you shall have the best of sport and game. Ride on my gallant huntsmen, when must I come again? For you shall never want for a fox to chase all over the glen. And when your need is greatest, just call upon My Name. And I will come and you shall have the best of sport and game.’”

 

Serena smiled as her companions shared songs, Lord Dace and his men adding a few classic dwarven tunes as well. The smile soon faded as the spot she’d found Trian drew closer and closer. She gripped the handle of her shield more tightly. She’d need a drink when they finally got back to the city.

 

* * *

 

Serena slipped off as soon as the group returned, no one really knowing where she’d gone. Garik went out to find her, but didn’t return. Conrí, exasperated and slightly worried, sent Xolana to find the wayward dwarves. Eventually, she came upon Tapsters, the premiere watering hole in the Commons. Something told Xolana she’d find both dwarves within.

 

She entered the tavern, looking all around for Serena. Finally spotting her over in a corner, Xolana managed to get a hold of two more drinks and made her way over to the princess. She stopped at a respectful distance, but close enough so the dwarf could noticed and hear the mage over the background babble. “Hey there,” she raised the two massive mugs full of frothing ale. “Room for one more?”

 

Serena looked up from her drink. “Yeah. Especially if you're bringing more ale.”

 

Xolana nodded knowingly and slowly sat down next to Serena, though still respectfully far away. “Thought you might want some more of that,” she mused, putting one mug before the dwarf but keeping the other for herself for now. “What a turn of events, huh?”

 

“Yeah, no kidding. If my head doesn't stop spinning I might end up looking like Kondrat over there,” Serena gestured to a surly, red haired dwarf nursing what looked like his fifth mug. “Then again, Valenta's Red isn't the best thing to be drinking if you need a clear head. Sod it,” she took a long pull of her drink.

 

“If you wanna talk about it, I am here,” Xolana sighed. “Or, push comes to shove, I suppose I can just wait to carry you back home when you're happy with your state of intoxication. Either way, I shall stay.”

 

“Can I do both?” Serena asked sourly.

 

Xolana gave a mirthless chuckle. “Of course you can, dear. That’s why I came here. Don’t worry though, unless the others figure to find you here as I did, no one knows where we are. You can speak as freely as you will.”

 

Serena let out a tired sigh. “The practical side of me, ruled completely by reason and logic and pragma- ,prag-. You know what I mean. The side of me controlled by all that lot knows Bhelen is what Orzammar needs. Yet, the emotional side can't forget the way I found Trian.”   


“Lost somewhere between logic and emotions,” said Xolana, nodding along. “Mind and heart, if you will. I understand.”

 

“But this is exactly why I wasn't so sure when Conrí gave me the lead here,” Serena groaned. “Last time I was in charge of anything, I was locked in the Deep Roads and left to die.”

 

“But you know that won't happen again,” Xolana reasoned. “You are a Grey Warden, and none of us, especially not Conrí, will let that happen to you. Of course, I can still understand why you're worried about it, though.”

 

“I know you won't,” Serena acknowledged. “Conrí and Garik didn't drag my carcass out of the Deep just to get locked back in there. I just don't want to screw this up, we need those troops...”

 

“Serena,” Xolana dared to put a reassuring hand on Serena’s arm now. “I know you were raised a queen. I know you were taught to show no weakness and always watch your back, but you can let go now, at least for a bit. At least for a little while. You no longer have the burden of a queen - Conrí is taking care of all those things. And you have us, your friends, here to help you if you let us. Please don't feel like you must suffer, especially not alone.”

 

Serena squeezed the mage’s hand with her own. “I never wanted to be queen, you know. I was always happy to be the second child. Never have to deal with the cutthroats in the Assembly. I was satisfied fighting Darkspawn. Let Trian deal with the nobles. What hurt the most was that Trian changed as I got older. We used to be so close...”

 

“People change, it's a sad truth,” Xolana shook her head. “He had a lot of pressures to deal with, his life can't have been easy either. And who knows what the cutthroats had been layering him with. Look, the important thing is, you can't blame yourself for what happened. It won't undo the past. The best thing you can do now is to honor your brothers memory and continue being the sister he loved and to do your best.”

 

“At the time,” Serena continued. “Gorim was the only one who knew how I felt. I couldn't tell Bhelen, since as far as I could tell, he was under Trian's thumb. I couldn't mention it to my father, since he couldn't show favoritism and that would look exactly like it.”

 

“Caught between a rock and a hard place we would say; though I'm not sure whether that wouldn't imply a good thing for you,” Xolana cleared her throat. “Sorry anyway! Back to you.”

 

Serena chuckled sadly. “Depends on the context,” her head lowered into her hand as tears start leaking from her eyes. “I miss him. In spite of everything, I miss him...”

 

“H-hey, hey now,” hesitantly at first, but then more confidently, Xolana put an arm around Serena and gave her a hug. “There, there. It's ok.”

 

Serena stayed as she was for a few moments, crying silently before straightening up. “Sorry, I must look like such a fool,” she drained the rest of her mug. “Thanks for listening to me whine, you didn't have to.”

 

“I do not see a fool,” Xolana said quietly. “Only a woman who is finally admitting to her emotions. It is ok, I understand why you usually hide them, but if you ever need an outlet, I am here for you.”

 

Serena smiled slightly as she wiped her eyes. “I hope you just mean talking. You're not my type.”

 

Xolana laughed. “If I was offering, you would know, and it would not be in this context,” Xolana’s expression grew serious. “Serena, I know you and I have been off to a bad start, and I know you think me crass, but we are companions, and I care deeply for you. Even without any second thoughts to... other things.”

 

“And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel unwelcome,” Serena nodded. “Magic unnerved me for a long time. I'm a dwarf, magic wasn't exactly something I came across on a daily basis. And I if I did come across it, it was usually aimed at me.”

 

“I know you do not mean it like so,” Xolana shook her head. “But I know what it is like to be feared and hated just for being a mage. It is not a new experience to me, and I understand where it comes from. I do not resent you for it.

 

“Still, it wasn't fair of me. I'm sorry.”

 

“Your apology is accepted, though unnecessary, I assure you,” Xolana sighed. “But how about you? How do you feel? Got everything off your chest?”   


“Besides the urge to kick my brother in the danglers?” Serena asked sardonically. “Yeah. Come on. Don't want the Commander getting too worried about us.” Serena got up slowly and pulled a passed out Garik up from the other side of the booth.

 

“He was there all along?” Xolana stared at him in confusion and surprise.

 

“He's been out for the better part of an hour,” Serena explained. “Got into a drinking contest with Kondrat before I got here. He lost. Bad.”

 

“Ah, well then,” Xolana chuckled. “Here, let me take him - I am still a good deal more sober than you are.”

 

“Fair point,” Serena chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to drop him in a lava sink. Commander wouldn’t be too happy about that.”

 

 


	34. From Provings to Dust Town and Into the Deeps

Serena rolled her shoulders as she strode into the Proving Arena. It seemed like a lifetime ago when she last stood one these stones, when in fact it hadn’t even been a year. She had no worries of what the warrior caste called ‘ring rust,’ but it wouldn’t do to get cocky and eliminated in the first round.

 

“This is a Glory Proving, fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar to honor the memory of King Endrin,” boomed the voice of the Proving Master. He’d put up a bit of a fuss when Garik had strolled into the stands, but with Conrí present as the man who’d recruited the former casteless, the old dwarf could do little but bluster a bit. “First up is Seweryn of the Warrior Caste. Many of you remember when Seweryn made history as a lad of twelve by defeating his own father in this very ring. Today he fights for the royal Prince Bhelen against a member of the famed Grey Wardens.”  


Serena did indeed remember Seweryn as he was one of her favorite sparring partners during her training. Despite her being royalty at the time, Seweryn never held back in fear of reprisals. She also attended the Proving where Seweryn defeated his father to join the warriors a few years early. She had been about seven at the time, barely old enough to hold a training sword, much less a combat ready weapon, but that was the day she decided she wanted to be a fighter, in spite of her late mother’s horror at a princess fighting at all.  


“In the name of House Aeducan, and the future King Bhelen!” Seweryn barked, drawing his longsword.

 

“First Warrior to fall is vanquished. Fight!” the Proving Master shouted.

 

Serena settled behind her shield. She’d sparred with Seweryn numerous times and knew a fatal flaw in his style. The small shield on his arm was purely additional armor to Seweryn, not an added weapon. 

 

Seweryn charged, intent on using his superior weight to force Serena off balance. Serena raised her shield slightly and absorbed the brunt of the charge, her feet not shifting on the rough stone beneath her. With a grunt, Serena shoved her shield and her opponent back. Seweryn stumbled back a few steps before regaining his stance. “Your form has improved, Warden,” he grunted. 

 

“Yours hasn’t,” Serena grunted, readying her axe.

 

Seweryn chuckled. “Still as sharp tongued as I remember,” he said before swinging his sword. Serena caught the blow with her shield and aimed a low strike at her opponents legs. 

 

Seweryn jumped back with surprising nimbleness. So he has learned to move his feet, Serena mused as she returned to her defensive stance. Maybe I planted him on his arse one too many times.

 

The pair traded blows and barbs throughout the match, but Serena quickly came to the conclusion she wasn’t going to best Seweryn at this rate. Thinking quickly, she used the curved back spike of her axe and hooked Seweryn’s leg when he slammed his shield against hers, causing the larger dwarf to stumble. Rearing her shield back she slammed the rounded Silverite into Seweryn’s face, knocking him out instantly.

 

“The Winner is… the Grey Warden!” the Proving Master bellowed.

 

Serena raised her axe over head in victory before heading back to the fighter’s quarters. 

 

“The Grey Warden will face the notorious duo, the Warrior Caste’s twin terrors, now fighting as champions for Prince Bhelen, Myaja and Lucjan!” the proving master yelled as Serena returned to ring twenty minutes later. Serena scowled. Since Myaja and Lucjan were twins, they could fight as one person. It was a loophole they used fully.

 

“May the Stone accept you…” Myaja muttered.

 

“When you fall…” Lucjan finished with a grin.

 

“Sure. And may the dirt taste good when I feed it to you!” Serena growled as the match started. She kept her attention primarily on Myaja, but was always aware of Lucjan. She learned from watching others fight the twins to never lose sight of Lucjan or risk a dagger in the spine. After a few minutes of trading blows with Myaja and dodging Lucjan’s daggers, Serena found herself without her shield. 

 

She ducked a heavy blow from Myaja’s war hammer and lashed out with her armored fist, sinking it into Myaja’s lightly armored midsection. The woman doubled over, allowing Serena to sweep her knee up and slam into Myaja’s unprotected face. Myaja stumbled back, disorientated and bleeding. Serena grit her teeth and took a page from Garik’s book and left her feet, driving both boots into Myaja’s chest, sending her sprawling. When she finally stopped rolling, Myaja didn’t even move. 

 

Ducking again, Serena barely avoided Lucjan’s strike. With a low snarl, Serena drove her shoulder into Lucjan’s gut, doubling him over just like Myaja. Rather than using her knee again, Serena dropped her axe and wrapped her arms around Lucjan’s waist. Popping her hips, she turned Lucjan upside down only to let his momentum slam him into the ground. 

 

Lucjan rolled onto his stomach grasping his lower back, but this proved to be a fatal mistake. She strode forward and wrapped both arms around his legs and pulled back so his face was pressed into the floor and his legs were held above his head. Pressing her knee into Lucjan’s neck, Serena pulled back, twisting Lucjan’s spine at an excruciating angle. The young dwarf screamed in pain, trying to hold off and let Myaja get back on her feet. Serena knew otherwise. Myaja hadn’t moved since she landed on the stone.

 

Finally reaching his breaking point, Lucjan screamed, “I yield!” slamming his fist into the stone. Serena released him and threw back her head with a bellow of victory.   
  
“In a most unorthodox fashion, the winner is the Grey Warden!”

 

Garik smiled from his place in the stands. “That’s my girl,” he said quietly, having been the one to teach Serena his grappling style. 

 

* * *

 

After defeating Captain Roshen Serena found herself being tasked with choosing a partner. She grinned silently as she strode into the arena. 

 

“This round is paired combat,” the Proving Master called. “Just as Kiotshett fought as king Bloadlikk’s second defending our empire, so have dwarves always fought alongside a second. Grey Warden, chose your second, for now you face Lord Darvianak Vollney and Olaniv.”

 

“My second will be my brother Warden, Garik Brosca!” Serena barked.

 

Garik hopped out of the crowd with a devilish grin on his face. “Hey, I can actually fight here without getting tossed in cell now!”

 

Proving Master scowled slightly. “The first team to fall is vanquished. Fight!”

 

* * *

 

“Only two warriors remain,” the Proving Master called before the final bout. “Fighting for his royal cousin Bhelen, Piotin Aeducan has led his team to triumph over every unit so far. Challenging him, the Grey Warden came from nowhere, cutting a swath through Orzammar’s finest warriors. Each will lead a full unit of four soldiers, to see once and for all whom the ancestors favor.”

 

“You should not have come back, exile,” Piotin snarled. “What insult do you mean to the future king?”

 

“You have it all wrong, Piotin,” Serena said quietly. “I’m not here for Harrowmont, or Bhelen. I’m here for myself, and for the Grey Wardens.”  
  
“And we are going to show all of Orzammar what they’ve ignored and thrown away for far too long,” Garik added.  
  
“Joining us will be Warden Commander Conrí Cousland and Warden Mage Tristan Surana,” Serena called.

 

A small crow flitted out from the stands to land on the stone tiled floor and shifted into Tristan, unnerving the dwarves with the display of magic. Before they could do more than shudder, Conrí leapt from the VIP box to land heavily behind Serena. He stood slowly, rising to his full height before drawing his sword and cracking his neck.  
  
Piotin’s eyes narrowed. He barked out his orders before charging his cousin.

 

* * *

 

Success brought them an invitation to the Palace, and an introduction to Prince Bhelen himself.

 

“Well, well,” Bhelen smirked. “I must say, I was surprised when Vartag came to me with news my exiled sister has returned and was even working to put me on our father’s throne.”

 

Serena clapped sarcastically. “You play the game well, little brother. I have to respect that. But honestly, you did me a favor. I had as much desire for the throne as I do repeating the experience of Ser Blackstone breaking my arm. But enough. We’re here because of the Darkspawn. Nothing else.”

 

Bhelen’s face shifted from mocking to contemplative. He’d expected angry shouting and accusations. It seemed his sister had learned when and how to play. A grudging respect wriggled into his mind. After a long moment he nodded. “Then we agree. We both know that fighting the Blight is all that really matters. We must have absolute unity to face the fulcrum of true evil.”

  
Conrí regarded him gravely. The phrase might be considered hyperbolic, but it was also completely true. Conrí suspected that Bhelen thought his own elevation to monarch equally important. Nonetheless, if he believed that only he had the ability to recognize the danger facing them for what it was, then Conrí could understand his will to power. As he pointed out very justly, the treaty only bound the King to assist the Grey Wardens. In the absence of such, they would be quite out of luck.

 

Serena’s intervention had won him two more votes, but more was needed. Serena listened to his further demands, willing herself not to sigh.

 

“Crime is rampant in the streets. How could anyone win the support of the Assembly if they permitted such chaos?”

 

There was a something called the Carta, which was a criminal organization based in Dust Town, the home of the casteless. Bhelen believed that the current gang leader was a woman named Jarvia. Garik snarled quietly when he heard the name.  


“She was Beraht’s lieutenant,” he said darkly. “I guess with the rock sucker dead, she stepped in. Bloody whore…”

  
Serena’s mission was to hunt down this Jarvia and her Carta, and eliminate them.

 

“More errands,” muttered Alistair.

 

“At least these errands involve fighting,” said Sten.

 

“They involve fighting dwarves,” Serena frowned. “When did we become the Orzammar City Guard?”

 

“And so you’ll have to unsheathe your sword over dwarven politics after all,” Morrigan said dryly.

 

“I had a bad feeling I would,” Serena sighed.

* * *

 

What a thing is was to travel and to see the wonders of Thedas for myself, Serena thought, grimacing at the irony of it. She descended into Dust Town, where the Carta had its base, and thought the Deep Roads might even be an improvement on this. The construction here was cruder, and its crumbling, unfinished nature reminded Erin somehow of the Highever Alienage. In one way it was better, for the inhabitants never needed to worry about the weather, but in every other…  
  
Serena had been warned away from Dust town as long as she could remember. And now she knew why.

 

Xolana faltered. “This is…”

 

“…horrible,” agreed Tristan.

 

“No one should have to live like this,” Leliana said softly.

 

Morrigan sneered. “Why do the poor not rise up against their betters? This I have never understood.”

 

Sten nodded. “I estimate that the dwarves waste a full sixth of their population. It is irrational, as the population is already small to begin with.”

 

It was filthy, and it stank. It reeked, actually. The companions passed a sort of crude butcher shop, where the carcasses of gutted nugs were hung on display. The proprietor grinned at them with green and filthy teeth. The dwarves here were all tattooed across the face, and scuttled from shadow to shadow, dressed in filthy rags.

 

Until they leapt out and attempted robbery, poor fools.

 

So Serena indeed drew her axe and killed them. Killed them dead in the dusty pathways, and no one said a word.

 

“I take it the City Guard doesn’t come here much,” Alistair remarked.

 

“Why would they?” Garik said bitterly. “Nobody cares what happens to us.”

 

There were beggars, of course, just as there were beggars everywhere. An older woman gladly gave Serena directions to a Carta safe house for the price of a meal. Hungry eyes fastened on the woman as Serena and her companions stepped away, and who knew how much of her money the old woman would be allowed to keep?

 

“Please,” called a young woman in a soft voice. “Please… my son is sick. Can you spare a few coins?”

 

Garik looked over her, and then looked again. “You’re not a brand,” he said slowly. “What are you doing here?”

 

It was the same old story, with dwarven variations. Listening to it, Conrí and the other humans learned more about dwarven inheritance customs than they might have from any book. Caste was inherited by gender, mother-to-daughter and father-to-son: the sex of a child determined its entire future.

 

Zerlinda had fallen in love with a casteless man and had born him a son. He had hoped for a daughter, and indeed that was the entire reason for his pursuit of a young woman of the smith caste. A daughter would have inherited her mother’s caste, and the father would have been permitted into the family. Instead, the unwanted son inherited his father’s casteless status, and was useless. Zerlinda had not seen her lover since. Her parents had thrown her out, demanding that she abandon the child in the Deep Roads before she could be welcome at home.

 

It was a sad story indeed, and Garik was so impatient with the lords and the deshyrs and the castes of Orzammar that he gave the young woman his real opinion and ten silver coins.

 

“Go to the surface and make a new life for your son there,” he said. “Trust me. A life on the surface is much better than this hole.”

 

“Well, nice to know you appreciate the homecoming,” said a jovial voice. Garik turned to see Leske striding towards him, a lazy smile on his face. 

 

“Leske?!” Garik crowed, seizing his long time friend around the head and rubbing his knuckles into the top of his scalp. “I’d’ve thought you’d be half way to Kal-Sharok by now!”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Leske shoved Garik off. “Been trying, but every time I try to leave, I spot one of Beraht’s old boys waiting. Like they know exactly when I’m headed for the surface. Look, Garik. I know why you’re down here. Jarvia’s been running roughshod over Orzammar and it was only a matter of time before someone was sent to deal with the problem. All I can tell you is Jarvia took over your old house when Rica and your mother skittered off to the Palace. Might be something there, I don’t know. Haven’t tried to look.”

 

“Thanks, Leske,” Garik nodded. “You better get out of here before it goes pear shaped.”

 

“Already gone, duster. Good luck.”

* * *

 

Have you ever had one of those feelings? Where you can somehow know something is about to go wrong? The curling in your gut just as you open the door to see you’ve walked into a trap?  


That was how Garik was feeling as he opened the door to his old home. 

 

“Jarvia said you were looking for trouble,” said a Carta thug as Garik stepped in, grinning and revealing a set of cracked, yellow teeth. “Congratulations. You found it.”

 

Garik snarled and fell on the thugs invading his old home. 

 

Once the unfortunate footpads had been dealt with, Garik turned to their leader, whom he had wounded but not mortally so. Garik seized the dwarf and slammed him against the wall.

 

“Don’t kill me!” he begged. “Great sodding Ancestors! What do they teach you on the surface?! You fight like a bleeding Archdemon! Sweet bloody stone, look at them all!”

 

“Spill, or you join them,” Garik growled. 

 

“Leske sent us… said you’d been poking around. Oh don’t look at me like that,” the thug added, misunderstanding Garik’s furious growl. “I got a kid. And no other way to bring in coin.”

 

“When did Leske return to the carta?” Garik demanded.

 

“About six months ago,” the thug admitted. “Said killing Beraht was all your idea. Last I heard, he was Jarvia’s lieutenant. And lover, if you believe the stories.”

 

“Where is her base?”

 

“You won’t be able to get in without this,” the thug pulled a rough cord from inside his armor. Dangling from the end was a finger bone token. “It goes into the slot on the fifth house on this row. Will… will you let me go now?”

 

Garik seized the token and ripped it off the thug’s neck. Glaring at the man for a long moment to make him sweat, Garik nodded. “Yeah. You don’t wanna be at Jarvia’s when I get there.”

 

“R-really?” the thug almost crumpled in relief as Garik let him go. “You’re a… good person. How do they say it..? The Ancestors have shown their favor… Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, just go before I change my mind,” Garik growled. Once the thug had sprinted from the building, Garik let out an angry snarl. “That slimy two-face son of a whore…” he shook his head, face still contorted into a sneer. “Come on. I know the house he was talking about.”

 

* * *

 

The secret lair of the Carta reminded Serena irresistibly of the Royal Palace: a twisting tunnel with stone chambers branching from it. There were bedchambers, and storage vaults, and offices. All of them were filled with warriors, and none of the warriors fled their duty. Here, in the depths of Orzammar, the casteless had made a kingdom of their own.

 

It even had a doorman.

 

“What’s the password?” he demanded gruffly.

 

Tristan burst out laughing. There were smirks and some rolling of eyes. Koun, Kiba and Tsume lowered their heads and growled.

 

Garik smiled faintly. “Get out of my way, or I’ll kill you.”

 

“But—that’s not the passw—”

 

Their invasion was a slaughter. The casteless were good fighters, but not brilliant ones. The few mercenaries they had as support—some qunari whom Sten held in contempt for abandoning their customs, some elven apostate mages—were cut down, too. There were no escape routes built into the Carta’s den. Once the Wardens pushed defenders into a stone chamber there was almost never a rear exit. The defenders stood and died. No one offered to surrender. Mercy was unknown in Dust Town.

 

Around another outcropping, they came to a kind of crossroads. On impulse, Serena chose the door to the left.

 

“Conrí,” she whispered. “You, Xolana, and Sten stay here. Watch to see if anything comes out of there—” she pointed to the right-hand door “—to attack us.”

 

Yes, the Carta hideout was much like a palace. It even had its own dungeon.

 

The stone chamber they next attacked was well-defended. A burly dwarf with a maul rushed them, flanked by some hard-eyed thugs. One flinched away from Erin’s sword flashing before his eyes, and stiffened as she plunged her sword into his side. Within a few minutes, the guards were down, and the companions were studying the little prison with curiosity. Well, Garik looked around in disdain, remembering being behind those bars. He urged them on quickly.  


 

At the next chamber, they burst in like a thunderbolt. The carta thugs were frozen and knocked down before they could breathe twice. Garik gave a cruel growl and sat on one of them, holding a dagger to his throat. His eyes opened, and he grunted in surprise.

 

Garik grinned back at Serena, his brown eyes cold. “Sorry, Princess, but I’ve got to talk to this one,” he turned back to the thug under him. “So, Morvin. Couple questions. Jarvia still hang out in Beraht’s old office?” When Morvin merely glared, Garik pressed his dagger into his neck harder.

 

“Yeah,” Morvin bit out. 

 

“Any change to the layout since I sent Beraht to his no doubt disappointed ancestors?”

 

“No…”

 

“Good,” Garik used the knuckle guard of his off-hand dagger to knock Morvin out and no doubt concuss the hapless thug.

 

Serena turned into the tunnel, “I take it you know where her quarters are?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Garik said, falling into step beside Serena, dark brown eyes gleaming like a hard coal fire. “Oh, yeah.”

 

“If it isn’t our little runaway,” Jarvia sneered as Garik kicked open the door. “Come back to finish the job?”

 

Garik snarled quietly. “Who did you have to kill to make Leske turn on me?”

 

“Make him?” Jarvia scoffed. “Who do you think suggested going after you? Leske’s been licking my feet to get back in favor ever since you crawled out from under Beraht’s corpse. When he heard you were in town, he finally had a way to prove his loyalty.”

 

Garik glared at his longtime friend. “I never would have betrayed you!” he bellowed. 

 

“You got too much sun on the brain,” Leske told Garik scornfully. “You forgot what it’s like. When Beraht died, Jarvia came out on top. She’s got the swords, she’s got the coin, and she’s got the bed where I sleep. If you were here, you’d have done the same.”

 

“Are you kidding me?!” Garik roared. “After what Beraht was gonna do to my sister?! You think I’d work for this skuzzy whore?! I’d rather stick my bits in a lit forge! Enough! I’m here to take this bitch out! If you get in my way, Leske, I will take you out too.”

 

“When you taste my steel,” Jarvia growled. “Think of Beraht. Even in death, he has his vengeance.” 

 

She drew her bow and motioned for her men to move forward. Leske fell back to her left flank, dagger and axe in hand. Garik frowned as he drew his own blades, watching Leske as he glanced about at his fellows. After a moment, Leske’s eyes found Garik’s again. A familiar mischievous smirk came over Leske’s face and he winked.

 

Garik’s surprise almost led to him losing an inch off his nose when a thug swung his axe. “Kill ‘em!” he barked. “Leave the whore to me!”

  
Acid splashed into Alistair’s face, and he screamed, temporarily blinded. Garik dove, and hit Jarvia at the knees, bringing her down. Erin ducked under an axe man’s furious swing, and stabbed him in the back of the neck during his follow-through, neatly severing his spine. Koun bowled an archer over, and shook him like rat. Leske shocked Jarvia by plunging a dagger into his lieutenant’s neck and moving on to help the invaders. 

 

Tristan was casting healing on Alistair, while Xolana herded the thugs closer to Morrigan with fire spells hot on their heels so the wilder witch could suck the life from them. Dwarves were resistant to magic, but they were not immune.

 

A blast of fire knock Conrí’s feet from under him, and he fell heavily on his back, winded.

 

“Traps!” shouted Leliana. “The room is rigged with them!”

 

Sten roared, and his axe swept a vast arc of destruction in the wake of Morrigan’s paralysis spell.

 

Jarvia kicked Garik away and darted, blades out, straight at Leliana, who was disarming a tripwire. Zevran threw a dagger, and Jarvia shrieked, weapon dropping from her ruined hand.

 

Alistair smashed her down with his shield, and Garik tackled her again. Around them was a hell of slaughter, as Jarvia’s henchmen were cut down, one by one.

 

In a last, desperate ploy, Jarvia pulled a thin bodkin from her coiled hair and thrust it into Garik’s face. Garik dodged, and the point pierced his ear, ripping it open. Garik bellowed in rage, and drove his axe into Jarvia’s chest. Sprays of crimson dyed his hand. Garik glared down at his old tormenter with unbridled hate. “You know what?” he growled. “Keep the axe. I only held onto it in hopes I’d be able to give it back the hard way.” He climbed off Jarvia as she choked on her last breaths. 

 

Serena walked calmly over to Garik, pulling a rag from her pouch and dabbing the blood from his ear. “You’ll need to have this looked at,” she said quietly.

 

“Bah,” Garik grunted. “I’ve had lot worse, Princess. I’ll be fine,” he turned his head and glared as Leske approached. 

 

“Look, Garik—” he started but was cut off. 

 

“Leske, unless you want a black eye and a broken jaw, you’ll leave me be for now. I’m really not in the mood for talking.”

 

Leske looked like he was about to crack a joke, but refrained and nodded, heading back the way the group had come. 

 

Xolana slipped over while Garik was distracted and gave him a pulse of healing magic. The dwarf jumped and shivered. “Damnit, Sparkles!” he groused. “That still don’t feel right!” Xolana snickered and retreated. Garik rubbed his ear against his shoulder and gave a full body shiver. “Balls…” he sighed. “Look, you guys head back to the Hostel. I’m… I’m gonna go take a walk. Clear my head. I’ll be back before too long.”

 

Serena nodded and let the dwarven Bard vanish into the tunnels they come in. After a while of looking around (mostly to prevent running into Garik) the rest of the group left as well.

 

* * *

 

Garik leaned against the ledge overhanging Orzammar’s fiery heart, a pilfered Antivan cigar between his lips. He’d taken it and several others from a strong box he’d picked on the way out of Jarvia’s base. Conrí preferred Fereldan and Garik had to agree. However, he got more pleasure from the fact it was taken from Jarvia then the taste of the weed itself. Taking a long drag, he blew out a stream of white and blue smoke before holding the cigar out to his right. Leske, who had walked up a moment before took it and puffed on it.

 

“Talk fast Leske,” Garik rumbled. 

 

“After you left, I tried laying low,” Leske began. “Sod, I was living off deepstalkers at the edge of the mine for a month. Then I had the brilliant idea of trying to fast talk my way back into the carta’s good graces. Jarvia was half-crazed so all it took was a few insults aimed at you and calling it all your plan to literally find my way back under Jarvia.”

 

“Apparently, right under her,” Garik snarked.

 

“Hey, she was a crazy bitch but she was a tiger between the sheets,” Leske snickered. 

 

“Yeah, could have lived and died a happy duster not knowing that, Lesk.”

 

“Hey, not all of us have a princess warming their beds, brand,” Leske shot back. Garik scowled and reached over, snatch the cigar back.

 

“Don’t go there, Leske,” Garik warned.

 

“Alright, alright,” Leske relented. “Sodding stone, you got touchy.”

 

“So what are you gonna do with the carta gone to the nugs?”

 

Leske shrugged. “Dunno… think maybe Rica needs a bodyguard?” when Garik glared at him again, Leske held up his hands. “Seriously. No perverted ulterior motive.”

 

Garik grew contemplative. “Maybe… I’ll talk to Bhelen. Since he’s rolling his oats with my sister, I think he can front me one favor,” Garik took one last drag off the cigar and flicked it into the lava below. “Stay outta trouble for the moment and I’ll let you know.” Garik started heading back to the Diamond quarter.

 

“Hey, Garik,” Leske called. “You got any…?” he was cut off as Garik tossed him a small box. Inside were three more cigars. 

 

Garik patted his bet pouch. “I got plenty.”

 

Leske grinned and pulled a cigar from the box, lighting it in a nearby brazier.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve simply outdone yourself, Warden,” Bhelen purred. Oozing charm from every pore, he sprang his next demand. “The elimination of Jarvia won me great favor, but to truly displace Harrowmont, we’ll need something… dramatic...”

 

Bhelen wanted the support of a Paragon. Conrí understood a little better now what a Paragon was, and what such a being meant to the dwarves. Dwarves didn’t have religion, as topsiders understood it. If they worshiped anything, it was the memory of their ancestors, and chief among them were the Paragons, dwarves who had contributed meaningfully to dwarven society. And there was one living Paragon at the moment, the Paragon Branka.

 

From what Serena remembered, as she would tell the rest of the Wardens later, Branka was a very difficult person. Individuals of genius often were, of course. Branka was born of the smith caste, and had invented something that impressed the dwarves, a smokeless forge, to be exact, and had thus been empowered to establish a House of her own. She had taken said House with her when she departed for the Deep Roads over two years before, on a hunt for some sort of lost dwarven treasure. Serena’s heart plummeted at the idea of a wild-goose chase far in the Deep Roads, following a two-year old trail.

 

“And what do you expect us to do if I find Branka?” she asked, her face carefully blank as she took over from Conrí.

 

“I was hoping you could use your legendary charm to persuade her to support the election of the rightful King,” Bhelen suggested, his flattery smooth as a greased griddle. “If, however, her time in the Deep Roads has addled her wits, perhaps it would be best that she not return from the Deep Roads alive…”

 

He could provide her a map that would take her at least part of the way: a map to a place called Caridin’s Cross, named after a great Paragon smith of old. The rest of the impossible task was pretty much up to her. And he let her know that Harrowmont was looking for Branka as well.

 

Serena internally grit her teeth and swept from the palace.

* * *

 

“We could be down there for weeks!” Alistair protested, horrified at the idea. “For months!”

 

“For years, decades — even centuries. Forever, in fact,” Serena agreed bitterly. “I think we have to make at least a show of going. Maybe we can find some reliable evidence that she is dead. That would satisfy Bhelen, I think, for if he could not rely on her support, he could be certain that no one else could have it either.” She slumped on the stone bench, and placed her elbows on the stone table.

 

“We’ll need a lot of food — and at least some water.”

 

They put it to the fellowship, and everyone had ideas of what needed to be done before they left on an expedition of such magnitude in the tunnels under the earth.

 

Alistair, Conrí, Erin, Garik and Sten would go to the surface, check on the horses, and buy some foodstuffs to take with them. Tira, Morrigan, Tristan, and Xolana would copy maps and lore at the Shaperate. Serena, Leliana, Blair and Zevran would go about the city, accompanied by Shale who had little else to do visiting the various shops and taverns to listen for gossip: especially the least morsels of information they could discover about Branka.

 

“I think we should get every bit of loot we can out of that Carta hideout,” Xolana suggested. “If we don’t, somebody else will. In fact, I think we should go down there right away and clear it all out first.”

 

It was a sound plan, and they acted on it without delay. It was not just the loot, but the food and drink as well. There were little luxuries that would improve the Grey Warden hostel. Amidst a heap of treasure, Serena had noted a lute. Leliana had her own, but it was something that could be left at the hostel, a source of recreation for some other Grey Warden.

 

Most of inhabitants of Dust Town gave them a wide berth, since word of the Carta Massacre had spread. A few harsh words were shouted, but Serena’s party was simply too numerous and powerful to defy. No one was thanking them for clearing out the gang, which probably meant that the casteless had probably been as proud of Jarvia as they were afraid of her.

 

They even discovered another entrance to the tunnels, and it came up inside one of the merchants they had visited earlier: the armorer Janar. He was horrified at their sudden appearance and their revelation that there was a hidden door in his shop, but he was willing enough to trade for their loot. Serena made arrangements with him to use his shop in future to enter the hideout, and thus they no longer needed to go through Dust Town. In a few more visits, they would have cleared out everything of use or value. It was very agreeable to have Sten amongst them, as he was able to carry entire barrels of ale or flour.

 

In the confusion as they emerged into the Orzammar Market district, a young girl outside Janar’s shop approached Xolana. In the brightest, perkiest voice possible she asked her, “Excuse me! Have you ever heard of a place called The Circle?”

 

Xolana stared at her. A host of memories horrible, happy, tender, and heartbreaking assailed her. After a moment, she said, “I was trained at the Circle.”

 

“That’s wonderful!” A wave of enthusiasm threatened to drown Xolana as the dwarf girl chattered on about her interest in magical theory and the readings she had already undertaken. “Oh, I’m Dagna, my lady. I so honored to meet a real mage of the Circle at last! I’ve written to the Circle, asking for permission to come and study there, but they’ve never answered.”

 

“You want to go to the Circle,” Xolana managed, not quite sure she had heard correctly. She waved Tristan over. He listened, bemused, and then shrugged.

 

“You can’t do magic. Dwarves just can’t. You know that, don’t you?”

 

“I know, I know! But the theory is so fascinating!”

 

“You’d have to go live on the surface, and from what I’ve read, you couldn’t come back to Orzammar,” Xolana added.

 

“I’d do anything to study at the Circle of Magi,” Dagna said fervently. Her hands twisted anxiously, as if these two outcast mages had the power to make or unmake her life.

 

Tristan looked at Xolana. She shrugged. “Since she’s not a mage, it’s not like she’d be a prisoner. Why not? I tell you what, Dagna: if we survive the next few weeks, I’ll write you a letter of introduction. Won’t Irving be excited to hear from me?”

 

Tira overheard, and snorted. “You’d do better if Warden Aeducan wrote the letter,” she told Dagna.

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Xolana protested.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, they struck out towards the mines. An argument had broken out the day before as to who was going. Conrí had ordered Blair, Erin and Alistair to remain behind.

 

“We need Wardens back just in case the rest of us don’t come back,” Conrí growled. “Sten and Zevran are remaining as well. Erin, you’re in no condition to go. I know your leg has been bothering you.” The ginger woman scowled and willed herself not to shuffle on her sore leg. “And we can’t afford the possibly future king of Fereldan to get lost in the Deeps. And I’d rather yank a dragon’s tooth then leave the three of you hear alone, so Sten and Zevran are staying back to help you.”

 

There had been more grumbling but the trio had agreed.

 

A half-drunken storm of red hair, red beard, and giant axe descended on them as they approached the entrance to the Deep Roads. Out of the whirlwind, a whiskey-bass voice growled a greeting: 

 

“Stranger, have you seen a Grey Warden around here? I heard he — or she — was setting out to search for Branka on the Prince’s own orders!”

 

Conrí paused to consider the burly dwarf in her path. “I am that Grey Warden, and that would be ‘he.’”

 

The dwarf muttered, “Guess the quality’s gone down a bit, at that.” He spoke up, noticing that he was listening. “Say! Can I ask you a favor?”

 

“Why not?” Conrí said bitterly. “Everyone else does.”

 

He fixed him with a rolling, blood-shot eye. “If you’re looking for Branka, you want to talk to me, because I’m the only one in all Orzammar who sodding knows what she was looking for.”

 

Garik looked at him, brows raised. He sighed. “All right, talk.”

 

“Yeah,” the dwarf agreed. “I’ll talk all right, if you take me with you. If we pool our knowledge, we have a chance. Otherwise, you got nothing.”

 

The companions were looking at each other skeptically. Serena stood on tiptoe to speak in Conrí’s ear. “That’s Oghren, Branka’s husband. Everybody knows about him. He pisses ale and kills little boys in first-blood duels.”

 

Oghren snorted, and said to Serena, “That’s... mostly true. Take me or leave me, I’m the one who knows what she wanted, and I’m the one who knows where she went.”

 

Conrí sighed in agitation. “Don’t I have enough armed lunatic’s following me already?”

 

“Perfect!” Oghren grinned. “What’s one more?”

 

Despite himself, Conrí found himself smirking wryly. This was gonna be interesting at least. “Alright Oghren. You have a deal.”

 

Having realised his objective, which was to be part of any expedition to rescue Branka, Oghren became loquacious, telling them all they wanted to know about her and more. Branka, it seemed, was looking for an artifact called the Anvil of the Void, created by the Paragon Caridin to produce the golems that had given Orzammar a century of peace.

 

"She'd look for it in the Ortan Thaig, because that was Cardin’s home. He was an Ortan before he was made a Paragon, and spent a lot of time there, even afterward. Nobody's been to Ortan Thaig in five hundred years. You could get there from Cardin’s Cross, I hear, but..."

 

"I have a map to Cardin’s Cross," Conrí told him, tapping his cuirass.

 

Oghren grinned. "And I have a map from Cardin’s Cross to Ortan Thaig. Guess we're in business."

 

Conrí supposed they were. They had maps, and a plan, and a pretty solid force. Oghren had gone all out in those first few skirmishes, fighting like a madman. Or like the berserker he was, he thought, using the correct term. He had squinted at Brosca, and Brosca had glared back at him, but Conrí had made clear that there were no castes in his company. They could fight as far apart as possible, if they liked, but they were allies and equals in Conrí’s eyes.

 

As they penetrated deeper, they made contact with darkspawn: first in small bands, then in larger, more concentrated ones. By the time they reached Cardin’s Cross, they were clearly in darkspawn country, not just in connecting tunnels, but even in the main halls of the Deep Roads.

 

Traps and ballistae challenged them, and even some of those huge beasts of burden the dwarves called brontos. The brutes had hide like viridium plate, and were as hard to kill as an ogre.

 

And they were seeing ogres, for that matter, now and then. They brought back horrible, heart-racing memories of the Tower of Ishal. Constantly, Conrí reminded herself that he was not alone: he had a trio of powerful mages, and Tira, Leliana, and Garik could do great damage with their arrows before the monsters could close with them.

 

There was no day and no night in these endless halls: only endless twilight, the reek of darkspawn, and the constant danger of a hideous death. One ate when one was hungry. One slept when was one was tired. There was not a breath of clean air, nor the softness of grass underfoot, nor the sweetness of flowers, nor the blessed light of sun, moon and stars.

 

There was, however, treasure. Other adventurers had been here before them. Garik stumbled on a cache of weapons and gold in a side tunnel. There was so much treasure that they started making caches themselves: marking their maps to remember what they could not carry with them; keeping some of the gold and the best jewels; sometimes trading an inferior weapon for a work of genius.

 

No one needed tents in the Deep Roads. They would make camp and build a fire with roots and discarded trash, with old axe handles and crumbled coal from the seams in the tunnel walls. They would lie down on their blankets and shut their eyes against the dim, eternal light, and try to sleep.

 

After an appropriate interval, they were on the move again, following the map, trusting to the copyist's accuracy. Endless miles of magnificent, ruined hall, endless miles of winding tunnel, one foot in front of the other.

 

Conrí experienced unutterable relief when at last a tunnel opened out into a vast vaulted space, and Oghren declared, “By the tits of my ancestors... Ortan Thaig. I never thought I’d see this place in the flesh.”

 

It was like and unlike the Aeducan Thaig he had visited before. This was bigger and even more fouled with centuries of darkspawn. The Aeducan Thaig was still somewhat in contention, and was visited regularly by dwarves seeking to regain it. This, however, had long ago been abandoned, and it looked it. Filth coated the walls of the dwarven dwellings, carved with such craftsmanship into the rock. This thaig must have had a large population in the great days of the Dwarven Empire. Stone bridges soared over rivers of dark water and rivers of glowing lava. The remaining sections of Deep Road attached to the thaig were still masterpieces of the mason's art.

 

It was something of a relief to be at their destination. Cardin’s Cross was three days behind them, the labyrinthine tunnels serving to be a great annoyance, putting the entire group on edge. Only the dwarf’s knowledge of the depths according to his so-called ‘stone-sense’ to find their way. Conrí still was unsure what to make of the dwarf. His determination to find Branka seemed sincere enough, but despite his devotion to his errant wife, he’d made passes at every woman in the group, including Wynne, since joining them, and his belligerent manner made it difficult for the companions to warm to him. Despite the fact that he was eternally drunk — or perhaps because of it — the dwarf was a formidable fighter, even in a berserker’s rage, and there was a gruff practicality to him when he wasn’t going out of his way to be offensive – which was most of the time. The height of conversation anyone had gotten from him so far had been a rather abrupt “Stop wasting time. I’m not here to chat.”

 

Still, without him, they would never have recognized the faint chips in the stone that marked Branka’s passage, and likely never found that the Paragon’s next destination had been Ortan Thaig, so some credit had to be given to the dwarf.

 

All of them had grown tired and claustrophobic, their surroundings doing little for their mood. Only the dwarves and Shale seemed completely unaffected by the setting. Conrí often caught himself glancing to the stone that hemmed them in from above, below and on all sides. Xolana had developed the restless irritability of a caged lion, Koun snapped and growled at every little thing and Wynne, while still steady and calm, was graver than usual and Leliana… she worried him the most. The endless, oppressive darkness was smothering the Orlesian’s bright spirit, as much as she tried to hide it. Sound carried in the caverns, resonating from the stone, which meant that conversations were kept low, and music and song could not be indulged in. Deprived of both the sun and her music, the bard had grown pale and quiet, clinging to Conrí during the brief periods of rest they’d managed to claim as though fearful that something in the shadows might pull one of them away, and she could frequently be heard whispering the words of the Chant as she walked, drawing what little comfort she could from her faith.

 

Even as he kept his eye on the bard, he could hear Oghren pacing back and forth near one of the walls, running his fingers over the stone surface, looking for any anomalies or irregularities. “I can see Branka all over this place. She always took chips from the walls at regular intervals when she was in a new tunnel — to check their composition.” He gazed across the expanse, frowning. “If she was still here, though, she’d have sentries out by now.”

 

“Where would she have gone if not here?” Conrí questioned.

 

“Not sure. No one knows where the Anvil was — at the time, Ortan Thaig was considered part of the main city. Nobody bothered to mark down where the Anvil was stored, so now it’s impossible to know whether the Anvil’s been lost or even destroyed, but Branka said she knew where to look… I just hope she didn’t think of going to Bownammar.”

 

“Bownammar?” Conrí questioned; the name was unknown to him. “What’s that?”

 

“The City of the Dead, another one of Cardin’s creations. Paragon built it to honor the Legion of the Dead, meant for them to use it as their base in the tunnels, but it was more like a soddin’ mausoleum than anything else. Nowadays, it’s better known as the Dead Trenches; has been ever since the darkspawn conquered it near twenty years ago. Much of the Legion was destroyed when the fortress fell. I sure hope we don’t have to go there; darkspawn are thicker in the Trenches than maggots in a corpse!”

 

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it, Oghren” Conrí replied fairly. “Who knows, five minutes into the thaig, we might get lucky and find your wife and the Anvil ready and waiting for us to head back to Orzammar!”I’m not holding out much hope for it, but it would certainly make life much easier!

 

Barely ten meters from the entrance, they found a large number of bodies lay scattered at the entrance to a side tunnel; some of the giant spiders Oghren had referred to as ‘thaig crawlers’, legs curled up towards their bodies, several missing limbs or portions of their bodies, and five genlocks, armor punctured or even ripped open, their normally pallid skin even paler, clearly having been poisoned.

 

“No deep stalkers, nugs or brontos this deep. The only things you find down here are the spiders and the darkspawn. Makes sense they hunt each other,” Oghren explained.

 

“Somehow I don’t think spiders did that” Conrí countered, pointing to one of the genlocks, who looked to have had the back of its head hacked open. “That looks more like an axe wound and there are wounds on these bodies that look like teeth marks.” Oghren merely shrugged at the statement.

 

“Darkspawn are just as happy fighting amongst themselves as they are against us dwarves. They fight for just about any soddin’ reason — food, territory, dominance, or heck, just boredom — and the weakest darkspawn inevitably become prey for the strongest. Maybe some of these buggers,” Oghren said, kicking one of the genlocks in the ribs, “Survived the spiders, only to run into some peckish hurlock.”

 

Deeper into the tunnels, they could hear the sounds of fighting; the ringing clash of blades, angry hisses and screeches, and a deep, sonorous roar that could only be an ogre. “Looks like we’ll find out soon enough,” Conrí replied as they followed the tunnel into a large cavern that stretched for several meters, filled with, as Oghren had said, darkspawn battling to the death with giant spiders. Near their entrance, an ogre howled angrily, beating its fists against its chest as attacking spiders closed in a circle around it. The ogre’s boulder-sized fists smashed one spider to a pulp but two others sank their fangs into the extended arm. As the beast spun round, Conrí saw its back and lower body were already scored with dozens of similar wounds, and Conrí wondered just how much spider venom the ogre’s constitution could withstand.

 

Further in the cavern, a genlock alpha thrashed on the floor underneath two spiders fighting for the right to feed first. The genlock managed to bury its axe between the eyes of one spider even as the other sank its fangs into the darkspawn’s gut. Just as it bit down, two hurlock archers left arrows in the spider’s bloated abdomen and the alpha stabbed the spider through the thorax. Other spiders battled with genlocks and hurlocks throughout the length of the cavern, each side sharing varying successes; two hurlocks hacked a thaig crawler into pieces even as a trio of spiders dragged off a screaming genlock.

 

“Stay back,” Conrí commanded. “Let them wipe each other out as much as possible; we’ll mop up the survivors.” It was more than mere prudent strategy; the behavior the darkspawn had exhibited over the last few days was starting to worry him. The creatures had been rather reluctant to engage the Wardens, all heading en masse towards the south-west, drawn to whatever was calling out to the blood of every tainted creature in the tunnels and the few that did engage behaved even more strangely. Nearly all their attacks seemed to focus on Leliana, Morrigan and Xolana, the monsters always attempting to try and separate the mages and the bard from the rest of the group. Only those two mages, though; Wynne seemed to hold no interest for them.

 

Conrí grit his teeth. He knew why but was very hesitant to bring it up. Just keep them away from those three and we’ll be fine, he thought.

 

A few more minutes, and numerous combatants on both sides had fallen. Conrí gave the command and their own attack began; sinking its crystal encrusted fists into the ground, Shale tore up a great chunk of the thaig’s stone floor and hurled it. The stone connected with the centre of the ogre’s brow like a missile shot from a trebuchet and with a resounding crack of bone, the ogre toppled to the floor. With an earth-shaking thud, the meager contents of its shattered skull leaking into the floor. The spiders hissed hungrily, swiftly descending on the carcass to feed, but even as the monstrous arachnids clambered over the ogre, Xolana loosed a fireball straight at the body that exploded, the spiders keening in agony as the fire chewed at their chitinous forms. With a roar, the mage loosed another flaming missile straight into the heart of the melee further in the cavern, darkspawn and spiders alike shrieking in horror as they burned.

 

One of the hurlock archers desperately tried to put out the flames clawing up at its legs while trying to notch an arrow, but Conrí’s own shaft was buried between its eyes too quickly. The genlock alpha tried to rally its ilk to fight, but with its reactions slowed and confused by the spider venom coursing through it, its efforts were sluggish and the darkspawn slow to respond to its cajoling, and the little success it managed to gain was swiftly ended when Leliana put two arrows through the alpha’s throat. That decided the course of the battle; deciding discretion was the better part of valor, the remaining darkspawn fled into the tunnels, leaving the spiders their prize… for the few moments before the company destroyed them. Xolana trapped two of the remaining spiders in a jet of ice that Wynne smashed into pieces with a boulder conjured from her staff while Conrí blocked the stabbing forelegs of the third and hacked them off in answer, burying his sword in the shrieking creature’s thorax before it could recover. A stream of fire conjured from the tip of Xolana’s staff incinerated a further two and sent the remainder scurrying after the darkspawn.

 

“Sometimes, it’s too easy,” Xolana laughed, but even as Conrí made to reply with a similar comment, he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye; a dark shape that flitted in and out of the shadows, moving into position. Before he could shout a warning, Xolana’s laughter suddenly turned into screams that intermingled with a high-pitched rasping screech as the shriek that had come bursting out of the side passage to their left seized the young woman around her waist and tackled her to the floor, its momentum dragging them a fair distance along the cave floor. The gangly darkspawn assassin managed to pin the mage’s arms to the ground, its fanged maw descending for her neck, and Xolana barely managed to worm her right hand free in time to grab the shriek by its throat, just keeping the snapping jaws at bay. Suddenly, the darkspawn pulled its head back and her grip slipped on the darkspawn’s leathery skin, and quick as a snake, the shriek’s fangs bit into the mage’s arm just above the wrist, Xolana’s pain-stricken screams mixed with gleeful growls as the shriek tore and ripped at the flesh, lacerating the limb almost to the bone without pause.

 

With a motion of his master’s hand, Koun went on the attack, leaping onto the shriek’s back, claws sinking into flesh to secure himself as the mabari’s fangs went to work, biting the darkspawn’s shoulders and neck. The shriek released its grip on Xolana to free its arms, angrily yowling as it lashed out trying to get the war hound off it, though the dog moved too quickly for the shriek’s claws to pry him off, but Xolana, her arms and robes streaked with blood, made good use of the distraction; despite her pain and shock being evident, she managed to grab her dagger from where it had fallen and, as Conrí commanded his hound to get clear, blasted the shriek with lightning from the staff’s tip. Even as it writhed and thrashed as the magical electricity lashed and burned its body, Oghren’s maul took the shriek’s legs out from under it, the thin, spindly limbs snapping like twigs, and the dwarf swiftly brought his hammer down on the shriek’s head as it tried to drag itself away, pulverizing its skull into something closely resembling a crushed tomato.

 

“We need to get moving; someone’s bound to have heard that,” Conrí warned. Sound carried quickly in the tunnels, and considering that the darkspawn’s destination towards the south-west required them to pass through this cavern, soon enough more would come, and in far greater numbers. Wynne nodded and made over to each of the companions in turn, checking them for injury and then moving on to the next, but when she got to Xolana, the younger woman waved aside the elder mage’s attempts to check her over.

 

“I’m fine,”

 

“Xolana, let me see. If that wound festers, it could cause-”

 

“I said I’m fine!” the mage snapped, and Wynne took a step back, shocked at the anger in her reply. Xolana took a deep breath, raised a hand in placation and replied, “Just give me some bandages and leave me to get on with it, I’ll be fine.” Wynne looked far from satisfied, but didn’t choose to pursue the argument, probably because Shale chose to interject at that point:

 

“Enough!” Shale intoned “If the mages do not cease making so much noise, I will crush their heads and then they will cease. Or would they rather wait until their bickering brings the darkspawn horde down on our heads as the Warden seems to think?”

 

Wynne scowled, but swiftly delved into a pouch at her belt and brusquely tossed a linen bandage roll at Xolana without so much as a passing glance; the younger woman caught it and swiftly began wrapping it around her wrist while muttering an incantation and pouring healing energy into the wound. After a few moments, she finished binding up the wound, tying off the bandage and finishing her incantations. “There,” she replied archly, waving her bandaged wrist at Wynne. “Good as new, and without you needing to interfere.”

 

“Let’s move,” Conrí commanded before Wynne could make any acerbic comment in answer. The old woman stormed away, surprisingly taking the lead with Leliana and Koun, followed by Oghren and Shale. Conrí was moving to bring up the rear when he realized Xolana wasn’t moving, instead hanging back to scratch at the bandages.

 

“You coming?” Conrí asked of the mage. For a half-second, Conrí thought he felt a twinge of something familiar coming from her, but afterwards, he must have imagined it, because Xolana seemed fine, giving a broad smile as she nodded in answer.

 

“Of course,” Xolana replied, waiting until the young man’s back was turned to give a wince at the twinge of pain that had shot through her right arm a second before. More worrying was the slight burning sensation in her wrist that lingered for far longer than it should have, and how it seemed to spread down the arm to her hand before finally dissipating.

 

“It’s nothing to worry about. It’ll pass soon enough,” she told herself even as she performed the spell. A minor blood cantrip, just to make it seem she was healthy and clean, bereft of any sign of illness… or infection; if Conrí and Wynne found out the wound was bothering her, they’d never stop pestering her, wasting time they didn’t have. “I won’t need it for long… just until we can find this Anvil and get out of these tunnels. Just so they don’t notice...”

 

"It will stop hurting in a bit, don’t worry..."

 

* * *

 

“Have I mentioned how much I really HATE spiders?” Conri roared even as Ageless all but hacked off another arachnid’s abdomen. He heard a squeal from behind and whirled to see another spider collapsing, its head and thorax riddled with arrows.

 

The nest had been far larger than they’d expected; a great cavern that was hung from end to end with copious cobwebs, adorned at various points along its length with web-wrapped corpses, a readymade larder for both the adults and the hatchlings. At varying points, the arachnids had laid their eggs in hollows in the ground, each clutch numbering at least fifty apple-sized eggs. Whatever the chamber had been in the thaig’s heyday, the spiders had firmly laid claim to it now, and they didn’t intend to relinquish it without a fight.

 

The spiders that emerged to defend their eggs were much larger than the ones they’d encountered so far, and far more aggressive; huge things the size of donkeys, covered in dark-purple carapaces and dark bristles, dozens of black eyes flashing and mandibles clicking hungrily that clambered down the walls to deal with the intruders, and worst of all, they stank to high heaven of rotted meat and the taint. Leliana reacted first, skewering one such creature to the cave wall with arrows loosed in rapid succession but the rest continued their descent and attacked the second they reached the ground. Shale smashed one’s spider’s head to a pulp and, seizing another in its granite fists, tore it in half, spraying the ground with stinking black ichor. Another suffered much the same as Oghren smashed a good number of its legs into mush and then crushed its head underfoot, but more spiders continued to descend from above. Dozens of flashing black eyes stared at them hungrily from all directions; Conrí plunged his sword between the eyes of one spider and hearing clicking noises behind him, whirled on his heel, the sword biting easily through the tainted chitin, half-severing the spider’s head. A third spider tried to sink its fangs into his leg, but the silverite plate denied it, trails of dark venom running down the Juggernaut boot. Before the spider could press its attack, Koun came charging from the left, sinking his fangs into the side of the spider’s head, the two struggling for a few moments until an arcane bolt to the thorax provided enough of a distraction for Koun to get a more firm grip on the thrashing arachnid’s head; there was an audible crunch, accompanied by a brief, agonized screech as the mabari’s powerful jaws and razor-sharp teeth crushed the spider’s head.

 

The spiders continued to press the attack, led by one far larger and even more aggressive than its smaller ilk which, judging how ferociously it tried to protect the egg clutches, had clearly laid. Even so, a combined attack by Conrí, Koun, Oghren and Shale had brought it down; Conrí had hacked off two of the eight legs and Koun tore off a third. Its movements hampered, and its abdomen aflame from well-placed arrows of Leliana’s, the spider tried to lunge at Conrí, overextending itself, and leaving itself completely open to simultaneous blows of the dwarf and golem, the stone fist and hammer head pulverizing the spider queen’s thorax into foul-smelling, ichor stained mush. With its death, the remaining spiders broke, fleeing deeper into the tunnels. Let them run Conrí thought. If we don’t catch them, the darkspawn beyond will.

 

As the battle came to its end, Leliana, Garik and Oghren sifted through the debris and detritus that the spiders had gathered, while Wynne, Shale and Koun systematically destroyed any surviving clutches of eggs rather than leave them to hatch. The last thing we want on the way back is a cave overrun with thousands of flesh-hungry spider hatchlings! Conrí knew. Xolana had sunk down to the floor. Conrí had tried to check if she was alright, and gotten a rather tart response for him to mind his own business. Conrí managed not to take much offence, merely dismissing it as the irritable manner that had afflicted them all down here.

 

As Conrí watched, Leliana and Oghren sifted through their hall, pulling out a large number of coins, silvers, bronze bits and gold sovereigns, a brutal-looking hand axe, its notched and serrated blade fashioned from dragonbone that Garik claimed for himself, some scrolls of parchment that Oghren said were marked with the seal of House Ortan — Wynne took the scrolls at that and placed them in her pack, explaining that a young dwarf woman she’d met in the Shaperate might find them of interest — and finally, a leather-bound journal, slightly battered and worn, but more or less intact. Oghren had given a jubilant outcry.

 

“Ha-ha! This was Branka’s! Mark my words, this’ll tell us where the old girl’s headed!” His satisfaction didn’t last long, however. “Bah, should have known!” Oghren cursed, tossing the book away. “Paranoid old nug-humper was always so afraid someone would steal her ideas, she made her hand-writin’ bad on purpose so no one but her could make sense o’ it!”

 

“Let me try; I was always good when it came to poor hand-writing; reading through and marking countless essays on magic from Maker-knows how many teenage mages over the years, one has to be,” Wynne remarked with a wry smirk as she picked up the discarded journal, idly sat herself down on a boulder and flicked through the journal until she came to the final entry. After a few brief moments as she skimmed her gaze over the passage, Wynne began to read it out loud, her recitation of the Paragon’s last, spine-chilling writings only adding to the air of tension and unease.

 

We found… evidence today that the Anvil of the Void was not built in the Ortan Thaig. We must go south to the Dead Trenches. The Anvil lies somewhere beyond. My soldiers tell me I am mad, that the Dead Trenches are crawling with darkspawn, that we will surely die before we find the Anvil… If we find it.

I leave this here in case they’re right. If I die in the Trenches, perhaps someone can yet walk past my corpse and retrieve the Anvil… for if it remains lost, so do we all.

 

“Right little ray of sunshine, your missus was,” Conrí scowled at Oghren. “Lovely mental picture that entry conjures up.”

 

“If I have not returned and Oghren yet lives, tell him...” Wynne paused, frowning. “No, what I have to say should be... for his ears alone… This is my farewell,” Wynne finished. The silence that fell upon them was not reassuring, though one of their number seemed less than worried by the journal’s ominous content.

 

“Branka was thinking about me!” Oghren muttered, sounding unexpectedly happy. “I knew she still cared, that old softy!”

 

I wouldn’t bet on that, Conrí thought to himself; the journal entry did not read like that of someone in their right frame of mind. Whatever the Paragon had to say to her husband, Conrí doubted it was anything good or warm. After all, if she truly cared, why’d she leave him behind?

 

“Looks like the Dead Trenches is our next stop after all,” Oghren pronounced heavily. “They say the darkspawn nest there, whole packs of ‘em.” Oghren shrugged, as if the thought of running into countless legions of the fiends didn’t bother him one bit. Considering his rather berserk approach to combat, perhaps it didn’t. “But if that’s where Branka went, then that’s where I’m going.”

 

* * *

 

Several days passed as they trekked towards the Dead Trenches. Xolana had been wrong.

 

The pain had only gotten worse.

“Darkspawn ahead,” Conrí said quietly. “Weapons ready.”

 

Xolana managed to pull her wards up one final time to suppress the taint, but her energy was dwindling fast. She was panting and sweating though trying to hide it, her eyes slightly glassy and feverish as well. The fever was threatening to overcome her and she couldn't quite hide the effects anymore.

 

Leliana had been noticing Xolana acting weirdly for a while now and finally spoke up. “Xolana... you don't look so good...”

 

“Gal's probably weak after all that fighting and no food!” Oghren blustered. “Get her some ale, that'll spruce her up well!” he would have continued but was shushed sternly by Tira.

 

Wynne pressed a hand to Xolana's forehead, their spat days before now forgotten. “You have a fever. Did you eat something off?”

 

Conrí frowned. “Your wound didn't fester did it?”

 

Xolana tried to get rid of the attention again though a slight delirium was starting to make her movements weird and uncoordinated. “I'm fine, don't worry about me. The darkspawn...” she was suddenly wracked by a coughing fit and that was it, the spells crashed. It was a miracle she hadn’t sunk to her knees yet.

 

“Xolana!” Leliana immediately ran over to the mage and gasped as she saw the blackened veins and glassy eyes.

 

Conrí hurried over as well. “Maker's ass, Amell, why didn't you mention anything?!”

 

“It's just a flesh wound and...” Xolana wheezed and coughed. “We have more important things to worry about...” she gave another hacking cough. “We don't have time to worry about me, this place is too dangerous.”

 

“Damnit Amell, your health is more important than some crazed Paragon!” Conrí snapped. “Shit. It’s advanced pretty far...”

 

Xolana was only just managing to stand because she was holding onto her staff for dear life. She laughed and coughed simultaneously, but without real humor. “Hey it's ok, I may not have become a real Warden but at least I die like one...” she took a difficult inhale. “I always wanted to see the world or at least more of it than just the tower, and I got to. You should leave me behind...”

 

Tristan interrupted Xolana by stomping forward, vicious flames burning in his eyes and grabbing a hold of her shoulders and shaking her angrily. “Snap out of it you insufferable wench! What happened to us getting through this together!? You may be tainted but I know the Xolana I know is still in there, so who the bloody Void is talking right now? Because, by Andraste, it isn’t her! Now lie the Void down before I smack you down and let us look after you!” Despite the fury, Tristan actually carefully helped Xolana down into a sitting position for now and supported her back until something better could be arranged, presumably by making camp.

 

Xolana herself was stunned and, apart from wheezing and coughing, silent. The others, not used to this particular kind of outburst from the prickly elf, were equally as silent.

 

Conrí was the first to snap out of the stunned silence and dug into his pack and pulled out the vial of darkspawn blood and lyrium Avernus had given him. “It's missing one ingredient....”

 

“Blood of an Archdemon...” Serena whispered.

 

Conrí nodded. “You've felt it too, haven't you? The beast isn't far. If we're lucky...”

 

“And if we're not, we get eaten,” Garik argued.

 

“That's why only a few of us are going ahead,” Conrí rumbled. “Garik, you, Oghren and I will head further on and hope we can get at least a drop of blood from the Archdemon.”

 

“I'm going with you,” Leliana argued. “You may need someone skilled with a bow.”

 

Conrí looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end sighed and nodded again. “The rest of you, stay here. Wynne, Surana, keep her alive. Sedate her if you have to; just keep the taint as slow as you can.” Tristan nodded and began mixing a potion to help with the pain.

 

“I won't be left out, Commander,” Tira said stubbornly. “I'm coming as well.”

 

Conrí pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But no one else. The rest of you will stay here and keep the darkspawn away. Shale, I’m gonna need your strength for this, if you don't mind.”

 

“Crushing darkspawn,” Shale said with glee. “It asks me to do the most wondrous of things. Very well. I will keep the mouthy mage safe from vermin.”

 

Conrí gave Shale a slap on the shoulder. “And Amell, you listen to whatever Surana and Wynne tell you. You don't have permission to die right now.” Xolana tried to whine a complaint but ended up being smothered and put to sleep by the busy mages.

 

“What are you planning to do?” Wynne asked, her hand wreathed in eldritch blue lights.

 

“Something desperate, idiotic, damn near-suicidal — and the only chance she has left,” Conrí started running deeper into the cave, Tira, Garik and Leliana following quickly.

 

Oghren stumbled along after them. “Slow down, you blighted surfacers! Do I look like I’m made for cross-country?”

 

“I don't like this. What if...” Tristan shook his head and got back to mixing useful potions while mumbling. “Oh by the Maker, Xol, why would you not say anything? How can you be so stubborn...”

 

Morrigan, whilst picking some herbs out of her bag to help lower the fever, spoke up. “It is quite remarkable she has succeeded in keeping it a secret for this long. Weaker spirits would have succumbed to the taint a long time ago already.”

 

Serena fiddled with her whetstone irritably. “She shouldn't have been down here. Damnit...”

 

“There is no point in ‘what ifs’ now,” Wynne reasoned. “We all came down here, so now we have to deal with the consequences. We always knew this mission, along with all quests leading up to our final goal, could well end in our untimely demise.”

 

Serena sighed and got her head back on straight. “Didn't you hear Conrí? She doesn't have permission to die. And as stubborn as Xolana is, she isn't going to go against that order willingly. I only hope that those five are fast enough....” Wynne pursed her lips but silently agreed and got back to trying to push back the taint as much as she could.

 

Conrí sprinted through the tunnels and finally emerged into the Dead Trenches. The throbbing in his head that had been building as they got closer neared painful levels.

 

“This is it. The Dead Trenches. Home to the City of the Dead,” Oghren grunted.

 

Garik went to the edge of the trench. “Ancestor's wrinkled balls... You lot might wanna take a look at this.”

 

Leliana approached holding her breath and Tira gasped in shock.

 

“Balls...” Conrí breathed. “There must be thousands of them down there. Tens of thousands...” The throbbing in his head turned into what feels like his skull is cracking. With the Archdemon’s presence and the darkspawn chanting, he gripped the sides of his head. 

 

Urthemiel, Urthemiel, Urthemiel, Urthemiel!

 

“Ugh,” Conrí groaned as the chanting rose in volume, falling to one knee. “Get back...”

 

“What?” Garik yelped.

 

“I said get back!” Conrí dove and tackled Leliana and Garik away from the edge away from the edge. Tira leapt back just as the Archdemon soared out of the trench. 

 

It was massive, at least a third larger than the Fereldan Frostback they’d faced in the mountains above Haven. Its skin was a deep, poisonous violet streaked with red and its eyes were the same empty, glassy white as the darkspawn it led. Leliana barely suppressed a screech of terror, though with the noise the marching spawn are making she would probably not have been heard anyway. Despite the pain in his head, Conrí wrapped a hand gently around her mouth anyway.

 

“How in the sodding Stone are we suppose to bleed that thing?!” Garik whispered frantically. “Let alone kill it!”

 

Conrí grabbed his sword and made for the trench. “We can’t right now. But we need that things blood. The only question is... how?”

 

“Perhaps Leliana and I could try it?” Tira suggested, though she had gone a frighteningly pale white.

 

Leliana swallowed and nodded, removing Conrí’s hand. “It would be safest.”

 

Conrí nodded and pulled out an empty vial. “I think I can manipulate the powers Draco's blood gave me. Rather than drawing it to myself, I could draw the blood to the vial.”

 

“Then we have a plan.”

 

“Aye. You need anything?” Conrí asked.

 

“Perhaps a little courage,” Leliana smiled nervously. Oghren offered his flask. “Not that kind.”

 

Tira offered a short, quiet prayer to the elven god of the hunt before notching an arrow and nodding that she was ready.

 

Leliana raised her bow. “The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker shall guide their hand,” with that, she launched an arrow, Tira barely half a heart beat behind her. The arrows tore through the sensitive membrane of the Archdemon's right wing, drawing fountains of blood.

 

Conrí sprinted to the bridge, vial in hand as the Archdemon roared in rage. Using the morbid powers Draco’s blood had given him, Conrí began drawing in the spilled blood and it swirled around him before being sucked into the empty vial. Leliana smiled slightly as Conrí stoppered the vial before pocketing it. 

 

“Uh, boss!” Garik yelped. “Just a tip, but get the fuck out of there!”

 

The Archdemon let out another mighty roar and caught itself again in the air; the entire hoard knew where they were now and started towards them. Leliana and Tira slung their bows back around their shoulders and got ready to dash once Conrí rejoined them.

 

Conrí glared at the Archdemon for a long moment, before retreating. “Now's not the time, Cousland...” he growled to himself. “Go! I'll keep Urthemiel's attention! You lot get the bloody Void outta here! The horde can't get up here without going miles out of its way!” he ducked a blast of purple spirit fire.

 

“Welp, you heard the man!” the dwarves said at the same time.

 

“No Conrí, don’t be foolish!” Leliana screamed. 

 

“Conrí we came here for the vial of blood, we can't leave without you and it!” Tira shouted.

 

“I'm not staying!” Conrí barked. “I've got the bloody things attention right now! I'll literally be right behind you!”

 

Everyone's eyes widened as the massive dragon headed straight for them, before turning on their heels and dashing back the way they came. Conrí followed the others into a cave where the Archdemon couldn't follow just as the beast let loose one more blast. Gritting his teeth, he stood at a narrow pass and extended his limbs, letting his Juggernaut armor take the brunt of the spirit fire. He was blown forward and landed hard, but managed to keep the blast from going any farther. “Ugh...” Leliana frantically checked him over while Oghren and Garik start laughing hysterically because they could not believe they survived. Tira checked to make sure that the Archdemon had giving up pursuit. Conrí grunted as he rose to one knee. “Dear Conrí, magic armor doesn't protect us against concussion blasts. Never do that again. Love, your innards. Ugh.”

 

“If you can joke...” Leliana let out a beyond relieved sigh.

 

“We should not linger here,” Tira advised.

 

Conrí rose to his feet with a pained grunt. “Aye. We have what we came for. Let's get the bloody Void out of here,” he agreed, leading the way back to camp.

 

Back at camp, the mages were getting frantic because Xolana was fading away rapidly whilst Shale and Serena have had to take care of a couple of waves of Darkspawn. Conrí trotted over, metal armor clanking heavily the whole way, and ripped off a gauntlet as he neared the trio of mages.

 

“I hope you got what you needed, Conrí. She doesn't have much time left,” Wynne informed him.

 

Conrí merely nodded and grabbed both vials. He added a drop of archdemon blood to Avernus's mixture and grabbed his belt knife. “I need you to wake her for this.” Conrí cut his hand shallowly and added his own blood to the mixture before stoppering it again and giving it a brief, vigorous shake and prying the cork off again. In the meantime the others had woken Xolana up and managed to make her sit up, though she was completely delirious and babbling utter nonsense by now. “Xolana, can you hear me? I need you to focus!”

 

Xolana was still muttering fairly incoherently about the blight and the archdemon and the spawn but eventually came to enough to react. “C-Conrí…? It-t hurts...”

 

“I know. But I need you to focus,” Conrí grabbed her chin gently and made her look at him when her eyes started to drift shut again. “Listen to me. You. Will. Not. Die.” Xolana struggled to hold on to consciousness but managed to stare at Conri for a moment before nodding her understanding. “This gonna hurt. A lot. But, it’s time. Join us, sister. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and one day we shall join you. Xolana Amell, you are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good,” Conrí brought the vial to Xolana’s lips and poured it down her throat. “From this moment, you are a Grey Warden.”

 

The moment the liquid hit Xolana’s tongue, her gag reflex acted up but she forced herself to swallow it all. The instant the cup was taken away from her lips, the mage started coughing and retching violently, one hand shooting up to her throat. Xolana let out a blood-curdling screech of pain before she collapsed into feverish nightmares.

 

“Urthemiel, Urthemiel, Urthemiel, Urthemiel!”

 

* * *

 

Xolana eventually woke up from her twisted nightmares of darkspawn and tainted dragons. She was no longer fevered and ill, but weak from the ordeal and in a cold sweat from fright. She jolted awake screaming and sat up, looking around frantically until she was certain that her nightmares were not real.

 

“Xolana, calm down!” Leliana, who had been sitting anxiously next to her, grabbed the mage’s shoulders gently.

 

Tristan came closer as well. “Returned to the living, have you?” he grumped.

 

Xolana, no longer quite as wild-eyed, swallowed heavily. “I-I’m not dead?”

 

“No,” Conrí rumbled as he knelt in front of Xolana. “But you gave it your best shot.”

 

Xolana looked down bashfully. “I just didn't want to be an inconvenience...” Tristan had to restrain himself from just about strangling his long-time friend.

 

Conrí rolled his eyes. “You're not. Here,” he grunted, handing her a bowl of stew. “I'd imagine you're hungry. You'd better get used to it. Wardens’ metabolisms are stuck on high.”

 

Xolana was about to scrunch her nose at the thought of food after that demon blood, but then the smell of the food hit her nose, causing her stomach to growl loudly in response “Ah. Well now. Thank you...” she begrudgingly accepted the stew and began wolf it down.

 

Leliana watched silently for a bit but eventually tentatively asked. “Are you sure you're feeling better now, Xolana? You know, if you need to talk about what happened...”

 

“Love, let her eat first,” Conrí rebuked gently. “I know you mean well, but she won't recover without energy.”

 

Xolana, however, ate her meal a bit too quickly and started to feel a bit woozy. “I think I need to lie down again for a minute...” she offered Leliana a tired smile. “Thank you but, really, it's ok.”

 

Tristan watched Xolana lie back down with a stern expression and then went off to do something else while muttering about her playing hard and strong.

 

Conrí sat down next to Xolana. “So, I take it the dreams were bad?”

 

Xolana was silent for a long moment but then nodded with a sigh. “I didn't think they could get worse than what I was seeing anyway from the fever before but...”

 

“Well, it’s another thing you'll have to get used to,” Conrí warned her. “We're connected to the darkspawn and the archdemon. When we sleep, it’s even worse. Eventually, the dreams get more manageable and sleep comes easier. I just wanted to tell you, they scared the hell out of me at first too.”

 

“...yeah,” Xolana sighed heavily again. “I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble but... thank you for not leaving me to die.”

 

Tristan, fuming from a distance, barked out, “We should have!!!”

 

Conrí glared after Tristan. “Stop apologizing, Amell,” he said a mite sharply. “We don't leave anyone to die. You know that.”

 

Xolana looked away. “Tristan is right though. I should have at least said something, but as ever I was just too stubborn...”

 

“For once the mouthy mage wasn't quite so mouthy, though,” Shale commented. “It was rather pleasant.”

 

“That reminds me,” Conrí’s expression became hard. Xolana barely had time to realize it before Conrí headslapped her.

 

Xolana indignantly rubbed the spot. “Hey, what's that for!?” she protested.

 

“Next time you get hurt, tell someone you stupid bint,” Conrí barked, his steely eyes boring into hers.

 

Xolana was silent for a long moment. “I'm sorry, commander. I will.”

 

“You'd better. You're not dying before I do,” Conrí said, getting back to his feet.

 

“I'm not sure that thought reassures me, seeing as your life prediction isn't exactly favorable,” Xolana muttered a failed attempt at humor.

 

“Nice to know my Wardens have such faith in me,” Conrí snarked.

 

Xolana groaned. “No, that — that came out terribly. Look, just, can we both promise to do our best not to die? Along with everyone else who was crazy enough to come along?”

 

“I wasn't planning on dying, Amell,” Conrí assured the mage. “Not anytime soon, anyway.”

 

Xolana nodded, satisfied with the answer. After a moment's comfortable silence, her stomach gave another loud cry for food. “So… Conrí. I'm still hungry…” she muttered with an embarrassed flush.

 

Morrigan, who was on cooking detail that day, groaned and shouted in exasperation. “And so it begins yet again!”

 

Conrí however chuckled in amusement. “Alright,” he picked up her discarded bowl and headed back towards the stew pot. “I'll get you another helping. And make sure Morrigan doesn't slip you anything. We're in an outpost not far from Bownammar. We'll rest tonight and tomorrow and head out the next day.”

 

Xolana sat up quickly shocked and embarrassed. “Wait, we're resting for so long? Don't say it's because of me!?”

 

“No,” Conrí shook his head as Morrigan ladled more steaming stew into Xolana’s bowl. “You are a part of it, but we haven't stopped for more than a few hours in almost a week. We all need rest. Branka will hold off for another day.”

 

“Ok…” mollified, Xolana settled back to relax again and pay attention to the new food she'd received.

 

“Morrigan might complain,” Conrí chuckled, as he pulled a few strips of jerky from his pouch. “But there's plenty, so eat up. Sleep is easier on a full stomach.”

 

Leliana stretched her limbs before curling up and resting her head on Conrí’s thigh.

 

 


	35. The Anvil of the Void and Sky-Fire

Once again, they were on the march, one foot in front of the other. Darkspawn barred their way, viciously identical. Finally, after three long marches, Oghren triumphantly called out, “We've made it! Around the bend is the road to Bownammar, City of the Dead!”

 

A huge stone bridge spanned the gorge, and on the other side were gigantic gates that, according to Oghren, could only be the gates of the Fortress of Bownammar, once the home of the Legion of the Dead.

 

“Of course, the Legion still exists,” Oghren rumbled. “They just don't control Bownammar. It belongs to the darkspawn now.”

 

Nonetheless, the Legion was still out here, and still fighting. Another turn led them to one end of the bridge, and directly into a battle. “Charge!” Conrí roared, and they joined in, fighting beside the famed Legion of the Dead. Some of the warriors sported the tattoos of the casteless, for in no other context besides joining the Grey Wardens were the casteless legally permitted to bear arms.

 

The commander himself was heavily tattooed. He called out to Conrí as he kicked a dead hurlock aside. “You're far from the surface, stranger!”

 

Conrí tapped his chestplate by way of introduction. “Conrí. Grey Wardens.”

 

“Kardol. Legion of the Dead.”

 

There was no time for further ceremony. Before long the Wardens were moving further along the bridge, ahead of the Legion, meeting small bands of their mutual enemy. Tira, Brosca, Xolana and Kiba ran beside Conrí, freezing, stunning and knocking the darkspawn off their feet, whilst the warriors behind them hewed the creatures apart. Magic and arrows from further away sought their targets. They ran all the way across the bridge, hardly slowed by the darkspawn coming to meet them.

 

At the other end were the Gates of Bownammar, held by ranks of genlock archers. The massed darkspawn were consumed by a storm of ice and fire. The mages stank of lyrium, the air around them crackling with power. Dim shapes tottered and fell, shrouded in steam. A limping ogre blundered out of the whiteness. Conrí bull-rushed at the thing, running past to hamstring the legs. When the massive creature buckled, Conrí’s Greatsword bit into its neck. The ogre clutched at its throat and sank ponderously to the stones, measuring its length at last.

 

The Legion caught up with them. Kardol looked up at the De facto Warden Commander with some curiosity. “You've got skills, Warden, if not much sense.” His eyes slid to Oghren, and he grunted, “Drunks make poor allies.”

 

Conrí was perfectly aware that it was so, but Oghren's supply of strong spirits was long-since consumed, and the berserker was as sober as he was likely to ever be. Instead, he questioned Kardol about Branka and the Anvil of the Void. He was convinced that Branka had been dead for two years, and that the Anvil was a fairy tale. He thought their plan to travel beyond the Gates of Bownammar further proof of their insanity, but did not bother to talk the Wardens and their unlikely allies out of it. He wished them luck and turned away.

 

“Boss!” shouted Oghren. “Over here!” The dwarf was standing in the mouth of a tunnel that seemed to wind past the Gates. Conrí walked over, Koun trotting at his heels.

 

“Look!” Oghren pointed at the tunnel wall, squinting. “More chips were taken here. Branka came this way for sure!”

 

Alistair looked at Conrí and he joined the templar to talk to him privately. “At least we're on the trail,” Alistair said quietly. “It looks like we can go another seven days — I mean, marches, or whatever they call days around here — before we absolutely have to turn back. If you want to try, I'm with you.”

 

“It's going to be bad, Alistair. From now on it's nothing but darkspawn all the way. I find it hard to believe that Branka survived, even with two hundred followers and good equipment. How would they reprovision themselves? There's been no communication with the rest of Orzammar in two years.”

 

The likeliest scenario was that Branka and all her people had been massacred shortly after she passed the Gates. If they had survived, it could not have been for long. They might eat deepstalker and the occasional Bronto, but in the end they would have turned to the darkspawn, or equally horribly, on themselves. At that, if they turned on themselves, at least they would not become ghouls. It was in every way appalling, but Conrí had to have an answer that Bhelen would accept.

 

Thus they continued on their journey, following the signs; through mobs of darkspawn, traps and ambushes, ancient tombs and rifled sarcophagi. The name 'City of the Dead' was no exaggeration. Bownammar was nothing as much as a vast cemetery. That, too, disturbed Conrí, who found the whole idea of bodies stuffed away in stone boxes to slowly rot — or, as here, to be pawed at by the darkspawn and curious adventurers — profoundly disgusting.

 

“Well,” Alistair said, attempting to make light of it, “That's new. Anybody know what that is?”

 

Conrí shook his head, gazing at the long streaks of red, fleshy matter spilling across the stone floor. “There are worse things than monotony, I suppose,” he murmured.

 

Xolana kicked at the red stuff, and then backed away. “It's soft,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “I think… maybe… it's sort of… alive.”

 

Erin took a swing at it. Very thin ichor oozed from it. The mages leaned over, and Tristan pulled Xolana's hand away. “Don't touch it. I can say with an expert's certainty that this is Bad Stuff. I don't know what kind, but I know it is.”

 

There was more of it, and it was everywhere, thick and ropy, covering the floor and walls, dripping down from the ceiling, forming nasty, flesh colored pockets and sacs. 

 

Conrí grimaced. Duncan had informed him what these were once he’d received his promotion and assignment to Orzammar. Pulling a torch from Alistair’s hand, he pressed the end to one of the sacs. The greasy coating caught easily. “Burn them all.”

 

“What… what are they?” Serena asked warily.

 

Conrí was silent for a long moment as he burned another sac. “Darkspawn have to come from somewhere.”

 

Everyone capable paled and joined him in incinerating the sacs.

 

* * *

 

“First day they come and catch everyone.”  


 

“Second day they beat us and eat some for meat.”

 

“She was captured by the creatures?” Morrigan mused. “Why would they have let her live?”

  


“Fifth day they return, and it's another girl's turn.”

 

“Seventh day she grew as in her mouth they spew.”

 

“Eighth day we hated as she is violated.”

 

The women looked at each other, expressions of confusion turning to horror as they began to realize the personal, awful, and very specific danger they were in.

  


“Ninth day she grins, and devours her kin;

 

Now she does feast, as she's become the beast…”

 

It wasn’t long before they came upon the source of the voice intoning the insane doggerel.

 

“What is this? A human? Bland and unlikely.” A dwarven woman sat hunched over in the room’s centre, curled into herself, periodically stuffing great chunks of raw meat from the great mounds of flesh piled up around her into her mouth carelessly, uncaring of the mess of clotted blood and meat gobbets around her mouth that she made no effort to clean away. The taint was much further advanced in her, dark splotches of blackness dotting her face and under her eyes, giving the pallid, near-scaly skin a mottled look. Pale, cracked lips encrusted with sores and other diseased cuts periodically muttered the deranged poem they’d heard echoing through the tunnels. Yet, the perhaps most disturbing part of her appearance was her eyes…

 

“I know this drooling moss-licker...” Oghren’s voice was husky as he peered at the woman. “It’s Hespith; she was captain of Branka’s household guard.”

 

“Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers’ faces and open doors...” the woman muttered to herself more than anyone. She pushed dirty hair that may have once been blonde but now looked more of a dirty white, falling out in clumps and leaving large bald patches all over her scalp, out of her face, revealing hollowed cheeks smeared with black ichor. Behind him, Conrí vaguely heard Xolana excuse herself and flee back into the tunnel from which they’d come, the sound of her retching carrying to them. Not that Conrí blamed her: no doubt, the young mage was wondering if this was how she might have ended up. The same thought that was occurring to the Warden-Commander himself. Would he and Alistair one day look like this deformed, diseased creature when their time came and the taint ran its course, calling them to their final rest?

 

“I-is this darkspawn corruption? I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Wynne’s voice conveyed both fear and disgust at the unknown before her. 

 

‘Nor have I,’ Conrí thought; this woman was unlike any ghoul he’d seen before. From what he could feel, the taint within her didn’t seem to simply be poisoning her — instead, it seemed to be mutating, changing the flesh it infected, increasing growth and health, altering the body to better suit certain needs. Koun took one sniff of Hespith and then retreated with a whimper behind his master’s legs, growling at the tainted woman plaintively, tail firmly between his legs.

 

“Corruption!” the dwarf hissed, her head pricking up at the voice, her mouth contorted into a snaggle-toothed grimace. “The men did that! Their wounds festered and their minds fled... They are like dogs... marched again, the first to die.” The ghoulish woman looked up then, her eyes wide and staring in mortification at some sight only she could see. “Not us, not me. Not Laryn. We are not cut. We are fed. Friends and flesh and blood and bile and… and...”

 

Hespith collapsed in a heap, uncaring that she was wallowing in filth, her fingers running through the tainted mush coating the floor, the nails long and claw-like, blackened with filth, raking furrows across her mottled skin as she clutched herself, curling into a fetal ball. “All I could do was wish Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so that I would be spared… but I had to watch,” the dwarf continued to moan, her voice little more than a ragged whisper. “I had to see the change. How do you endure that? How did Branka endure?”

 

“What change? What did you endure? What... what are they doing?” Erin asked, immediately regretting the question, certain she wasn’t going to like the answer.

 

“What they are allowed to do. What they think they must. And Branka...” The woman licked her hands, hungrily licking the blackened blood off them and Leliana was gone, joining Xolana to vomit in disgust at the horrific sight of how low this dwarf had fallen in her madness.

 

Oghren stepped forward then, pressing his way past Conrí, seized Hespith roughly by the front of the tattered scraps of clothing that clung to her emaciated frame and roughly shook her. “Where is she, Hespith, you crazy old Bronto? Where’s Branka?”

 

It was the wrong thing to say. With an angry snarl, Hespith lashed out like a cat, forcing Oghren to stagger back, more from shock than anything else, and land on his arse in the muck. Healing energy leapt from Wynne’s fingers, cleansing the scratch marks of any possible infection, but Oghren didn’t notice, staring up in mute shock at the fury blazing in Hespith’s dead, mad eyes.

 

“Do not talk of Branka! What she did… Ancestors preserve us, I was her captain and… I did not stop her. Her lover... and I could not turn her. Forgive her... but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become.”

 

“What has she done? Tell us and we can help you end it!” Wynne pleaded her voice calm and even though her fear was apparent. She tried desperately to appeal to whatever rationality was left in the dwarf’s mind, but Hespith’s only reply was a deranged laugh — a chilling sound that made it quite clear there was nothing left of the woman beyond the insanity that had consumed her.

 

“End it? I am full of them, just a step away from Laryn! Ending it means accepting and that… T-that I won’t do! I will not become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!” Hespith wailed as she fled, scrambling like a monkey on all fours over the piles of raw meat and mutilated bodies, out through a stone doorway and into the corridors beyond.

 

“Hespith said lover,” Oghren muttered darkly. “Branka’s lover.”

 

“She was... she was out of her mind, Oghren,” Wynne said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “She was raving. That could have meant anything.”

 

“Nah, there’s got to be more than that,” Oghren growled. “Hespith! Hespith! Get back here now, you moss-licking old coot and start talking sense!” The dwarf bellowed as he hefted his maul and raced out of the room, through the door Hespith had fled out of.

 

“Oghren, wait!” Conrí yelled, racing after the fleeing form of the berserk dwarf, barely hearing the others bringing up the rear, his own mind dreading the confirmation of the crazed dwarf’s words.

 

“They took Laryn,” Hespith muttered, her voice echoing through the tunnel. “They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood. And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned gray and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them...”

 

“Oh, no...” Conrí whispered.

 

“Conrí, that sounds like—” Xolana swallowed and licked her lips nervously, looking very trouble. “Do you think…?” She glanced over her shoulder at the members of the team who were following close behind, trying to give them her best look of reassurance but actually looking for reassurance herself.

 

“I'm afraid so,” Conrí muttered. “Maybe we can slip around it.”

 

“Slip around what?” Leliana breathed.

 

“The reason I was so hesitant to take you, Xolana and Morrigan down here,” Conrí rumbled.

 

Xolana took Leliana's hand. “Just... let's hope we manage to get past it.”

 

“Well, so long as it doesn't mean leaving danger behind for others to find, I'm all for evading this — whatever it is. These endless tunnels are starting to make me feel like it's hard to breathe.”

 

“Yeah, I know the feeling. Come on. Oghren, you, Erin, Shale and I will take front. Leliana, you and Tira hang back. Xolana, Wynne, Tristan support when and where you can.”

 

Xolana nodded and went to walk next to Wynne, still looking troubled.

 

Shale gave a derisive snort. “I actually rather like these caves. I don't comprehend its issue.”

 

“Well, Wilhelm found you in the deeps. Makes sense,” Conrí muttered absentmindedly. 

 

“Quit yer complaining,” Oghren growled. “I don't get yet stupid topside problems either.”

 

“Maybe one day you well get it,” Conrí sighed, before suddenly silencing and looking alertly ahead. “Hold.” Conrí held up a hand.

 

“What is that smell?” Leliana gagged and coughed.

 

“Oh, sod...” Oghren rumbled, knowing that scent all too well.

 

Xolana’s fingers itched at hilts of her daggers, nostrils flaring as she looked around wildly, trying to locate the source. “Keep calm now, Amell... Calm...” she mumbled pointlessly to herself. 

 

“What is it NOW!?” Shale growled. “Are the soft ones getting “cold feet” or whatever they call it?”

 

“Shale,” Conrí swallowed hard. “We're definitely gonna need your help — we can't slip around it.”

 

Leliana gave whispered yell, “What in the Maker's name is it?!”

 

Conrí opened his mouth to give the dreaded answer, but Hespith’s dull voice cut him off before he could. “Broodmother...”

 

Xolana’s color drained completely from her face, her worst fear confirmed. She only started recovering after a few moments of Wynne shaking her, but even then the young mage looked beyond shaken.

 

“Is it mushy? Can I crush it?” Shale asked gleefully. 

 

"Please do!” Conrí bellowed in lieu of a war cry, leading the charge with Oghren and Shale close on his heels.

 

The bloated, stinking behemoth at the far end of the chamber was taller, broader, and doubtless weighed several tones more than both of the ogres they’d just slain. The archdemon had been terrifying enough, but there had been a form of twisted beauty to Urthemiel, a sense of power and majesty about the creature it had been before the taint warped it into the monster it had become. There was nothing redeeming about the foul creature sitting at the other side of the cavern, however. A huge, ponderous belly, with twin rows of fleshy, sagging teats like those of a sow’s rose and fell with every rasping breath it drew, though Alistair was amazed its weight hadn’t already crushed its lungs. Its leathery and pale, almost albino skin, devoid of any form of light in its blood-soaked lair, was greasy, owing to the oily, foul-smelling secretions oozing from every pore. There were no legs visible, nor did he think there was any sort of limbs strong enough to support the beast’s ponderous bulk, but from beneath the folds of fat at the body’s base, multiple appendages protruded, squid-like tentacles emerging through the bloody sludge coating the chamber floor, reaching out to grasp at its next meal. At the very back of its swollen, insect-like abdomen, Alistair could see a bulging ovipositor, laying more of the fleshy, membranous eggs they’d seen littering the tunnels, the newborn darkspawn inside them already gestating, yet more soldiers for Urthemiel’s horde.

  


Other tendrils slithered across the floor of the cavern, undulating sluggishly in the thick layer of sludge that was the source of the stomach-churning stench: the creature’s bodily wastes, oozing from some unseen orifice and mixed with the rotting carcasses of whatever creatures had been dumped there for the beast to gorge itself upon. The unholy mixture of rotting flesh, blood, vomit, excrement and Maker knew what else, of which the creature’s tentacles scooped up great gouts, formed fleshy mire all around it. The tentacles lifted them up to the creature’s gaping mouth; the only way it could feed itself, for while the body had swelled to monstrous proportions, the arms were stunted and tiny in comparison. It could not hope to reach the floor of the cavern or fit into the largest of the tunnels exiting it, could not move to hunt for prey, and could not even reach its own mouth. It was trapped here by its size, wallowing in its own filth, able to do nothing but eat and reproduce, subsumed forever to the will and urges of the creatures that had mutated the individual it once was into the aberration it had become.

 

Yet, the worst thing about it were its eyes — small, piggy-black orbs that had widened hungrily at the prospect of fresh meat. The creature let loose a ear-splitting scream, part cry of rage, part deranged laugh and, as its gaze bored into Alistair’s, he had a terrible suspicion that somewhere, a small part of the woman this monstrosity had been was still in there, fully aware of what had been done to it and what it had become, driven to a point no sane individual should go. Little wonder those eyes were clearly brimming with madness; seeing such a creature in the flesh would be enough to destroy lesser minds, so who knew what actually being made to suffer the horrific, agonizing attentions of the darkspawn would do to someone?

 

His mortification was such that Alistair only just managed to raise his shield in time to block the first tentacle that would otherwise have struck him full in his chest like a battering ram, sending him sprawling into the foul-smelling ooze. Conrí let out a yell as he felt another tentacle coil like a python around his right shin, retracting towards its host body with incredible speed, the Broodmother licking its lips hungrily at the prospect of fresh meat almost in reach.

 

Just as quickly, the Broodmothers hungry snuffling became a yowl of pain as an arrow struck it in the left eye; the creature fell back, its arms vainly trying to reach its face to pull the shaft out. Conrí chanced a look behind him, to see Leliana, another arrow in flight and the bard’s hand notching yet another to the bowstring. Her expression was calm and resolute as she channeled her fear and horror into rage, an emotion far more useful in the battle to come. It was advice Conrí chose to take.

 

“KILL IT! KILL THIS BEAST!” Conrí roared at the top of his lungs, leaping to his feet and drawing his sword free. There could be no more room for pity or mercy, no sympathy for the person the monster had been. Laryn could not be saved, only put out of her misery.

The Broodmother let out a furious shriek, directing the full brunt of its gaze at Conrí, its remaining eye brimming with undiluted hate. The Warden doubted the creature had understood what he’d said, but considering the half dozen armed figures closing around it, the giant darkspawn had to know it was threatened. Two more tentacles darted out like snakes, but Conrí was ready this time; leaping away from their strikes, Conrí slashed out with Ageless, the ancient blade he found in the palace, severing both with ease. The stumps bled black ichor as the wailing monster drew them back to its body. Three more tentacles burst out of the ground, the first of which Conrí sliced in half as it lunged, after which he pinned the second under his foot and hacked it off, only to then be swept off his feet as the third tentacle curled around his ankles. Before it could take advantage, Koun and Kiba leapt to the attack, seizing the tentacle and tearing it up out of the ground in a spray of dark blood like uprooting a weed. At the same time as he got back to his feet, Conrí heard a whoosh of flames roaring to life as Xolana let loose a fireball that slammed into the monster’s right shoulder, setting the oily secretions coating it ablaze. All the while, Wynne and Leliana threw glass bottles that smashed against the beast’s chest, drenching its sagging teats in acid, and now an edge of fear crept into the Broodmother’s wails. It lashed out again, its tentacles cracking like whips, but the warriors hacked their way through the fleshy, suckered thicket with ease.

 

They had it now. With enough of its tentacles severed, there wouldn’t be enough for the creature to defend itself against all of them and while some kept it distracted, the others could move in for the kill. “Made immobile and helpless by its own mutations, it won’t stand a chance,” Conrí thought as he advanced with the others, grinning savagely.

 

Just as he raised his sword once more, the Broodmother threw back its head and let loose an ear-splitting scream that reverberated off the cavern walls, echoing long after the beast had stopped. For a moment, it felt as though the world stood still, the silence and tension growing thick enough to cut with a knife, but soon it became clear that its cry had been heard.

 

“It’s calling for help!” Conrí roared, ripping his belt knife from its sheath and hurling it, the blade spinning end over end and slamming into the neck of one of the two dozen darkspawn emerging from the other side passages into the cavern. Leliana spun round and shot an arrow point blank into the chest of a charging hurlock, dropping it and causing two more behind it to trip over its corpse. Xolana and Wynne likewise spun round, Wynne conjuring a jet of ice onto the floor that sent a trio of genlocks sprawling to the ground, magical lightning from her counterpart’s fingertips fatally electrocuting the downed creatures. Meanwhile Oghren whirled around like a dervish, snapping the legs of any darkspawn that got in the way of his hammer. 

 

Conrí made to fight at the dwarf’s side as he smashed the chest of a hurlock even as the mabari tore out its throat, but Oghren waved him away. “No, me, the hairball and the walking rockery will handle this bunch! You, the elf and the ladies concentrate on Fatso over there!”

 

Conrí nodded and returned to facing the Broodmother, only to hear a scream of fright as Leliana was lifted by her leg by yet another tentacle that had burst up from the ground behind her. Before it could retract to deposit her in its waiting grasp, Wynne sent a boulder hurtling straight into the left side of the beast’s skull, crushing the temple and the eye socket, driving bone shards into the remaining eye. The monster’s already horrid screams only increased as its arms tried to clutch feebly at its blinded eyes, dropping Leliana in the bloody slime right in front of it in its agony. Conrí made to go to her side before pressing the advantage, but a trio of genlocks intercepted him, though Conrí could not tell whether they were still trying to separate Leliana from the others or defend the Broodmother. The closest lost its head to Conrí’s sword, but the remaining two leapt out of reach of the slash, trying to take advantage of the opening. Conrí managed to block the incoming stab and slammed the pommel into one’s chest and lashed out with a backhand into the other’s forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, Conrí could see Leliana getting back to her feet.

 

Leliana shook her head to clear it, getting groggily to her feet. The screams of the blinded Broodmother were ear-splitting, only intensifying as Xolana bathed its face and chest in fire conjured from her hands. Morrigan, caught off guard by her friend’s rage, soon joined Xolana in bathing the beast in flame. 

 

“Die! Die, you wretched thing, just DIE!” the amethyst eyed mage screamed at the top of her lungs. Leliana could well understand the panic-driven fury that the woman was feeling, because the same thoughts were going through her head; had things been more different, could the taint have forced the same horrific transformations on Xolana? Could she have become the next monster to rot in the darkness, birthing more and more of the foul monsters that had poisoned and mutated her until the mercy of death finally claimed her?

 

Leliana knew what it was like to be violated, to be used to satisfy men’s cruel lusts and desires for their pleasures through her pain but this… this was beyond even that horrific sort of defilement. No matter what this beast was, once it had been a woman just like her, had likely had plans, dreams, loves and no one deserved to be left to linger like this for the rest of their life, denied passage to the Maker’s or the Ancestors’ side, kept as a deformed and deranged slave to satisfy the depraved lusts and urges of the darkspawn. "I will free you, sister, I swear it!"

 

The Broodmother was blind in both eyes, unable to see how close Leliana was, its sense of smell overwhelmed by the other fetid odors to catch her scent. It was their best opportunity, but the others were surrounded by tentacles and darkspawn desperately trying to defend their matriarch; it would have to be her.

 

Putting aside her bow, instead unsheathing one of her daggers and the brutal-looking axe she’d claimed from the spider nest, Leliana broke into a run. Leaping onto the Broodmother’s insectile abdomen in a cat-like crouch, she briefly found purchase before rocketing upwards, trying to gain a hand-hold on the greasy skin of the Broodmother’s back. Her left hand found purchase in the fatty folds, but her right lost its grip and she would have gone sliding off had she not swung out with her weapon at the last second, the dragonbone axe blade sinking into the meaty shoulder. The Broodmother, alerted to her presence now, begin to buck and thrash, its blind head swinging wildly from side to side, as well as using several of its tentacles to try and pry her off, but she stabbed out with perfect precision as the tentacles lunged, fending them off until her torso was level with the beast’s neck, wrapping an arm around its throat to keep herself in place, trying not to vomit in disgust at being in close proximity to such foulness.

 

The smell of the creature was even worse this close, but Leliana somehow suppressed the rising urge to gag as she left the axe embedded in the colossal darkspawn’s shoulder and drew the Thorn of the Dead Gods in her right hand. The leathery skin and layers of blubbery fat at the back were too thick for the dagger to penetrate deep enough to do any serious injury, but she could see a far more effective point to strike.

 

Plunging the dagger in her left hand at the juncture between neck and shoulder, she managed to get the Thorn under the multiple chins as the Broodmother pulled its head back to scream in pain, driving the dagger into the soft skin at the throat. The silverite’s cold bite drew yet another howl from the beast as it realized it was in mortal danger, its desperate thrashings to try and shake her off only increasing. Even so, Leliana evaded the grasping appendages trying to seize her and with a guttural snarl, the bard pushed the dagger in as deep as it would go, then tore it across the throat. The tough skin, flesh and fat resisted for a moment, but couldn’t stop the razor sharpness from cutting through with lethal effect. The Broodmother’s screams reached a horrific pitch as its lifeblood flooded down its bloated belly in a jet-black fountain, its strength swiftly ebbing away as tentacles thrashed spasmodically in its death throes, weakening gurgles intermingling with the bard’s joyous cry of triumph...

 

Until she felt the tentacle coiling around her belt, dragging her off her perch.

 

She could feel herself be tossed through the air with considerable force, sent hurtling towards the cave wall with quite some speed.

 

“Oh merde,” was her last coherent thought just before her head connected with the stone.

 

* * *

 

With a few final shudders, the Broodmother was finally still.

 

Xolana wiped sweat off her brow. “Is it finally over? Is it really gone?” she asked, finally starting to return to her normal self.

 

“Where's Leliana?” Conrí asked, looking around.

 

Xolana’s dread began rising again. “She was just he-” she looked around hectically until her eyes fell upon the unconscious bard being dragged off in the distance. The mage’s vision went red. “Leliana!” she shrieked, adrenaline and panic on high, and Xolana cut her palms without even thinking to summoned a hoard of skeletons to slow the darkspawn down and protect Leliana until the group could get close enough.

 

“Oh hell no!” Conrí snarled as he charged.

 

“More to squish!” Shale bellowed, storming forward after Xolana’s skeletons.

 

 “I ain't letting this happen again…” Oghren growled mostly to himself as he dashed forward on the last of his energy. 

 

After the panic over the Broodmother and the high adrenaline levels, this situation finally made Xolana snap. Having already activated her blood magic anyway, the dark haired mage unleashed a torrent of vile blood attacks on the darkspawn who’d captured Leliana. She didn’t hold back even an inch, using Blood Wound to try and cripple as many of them as possible and even using Blood Control on the one holding the bard, forcing it to bring her back as the group was still running to catch up.

 

Shale was the first to reach the group and started pounding its way through the ones Xolana had successfully crippled. Tira, meanwhile, picked off ones that were still moving with terrifyingly accurate headshots, still fighting with her bow, though her number of arrows was dwindling fast.

 

Conrí and Oghren cut down those left alive. The commander, leaving his blade in the chest of a shriek, ran over to Leliana, who had woken as soon as Shale had thundered in and was continuing to panic. “Leli, Leli, calm down you're alright!”

 

The traumatized bard was damn near hysterical. “They were — they were..!”

 

“I'm here,” Conrí hugged her as best he could. “I will never let them take you.” Leliana slowly began to calm down. “I've got you.” Conrí muttered in her ear, reassuring her gently.

 

Xolana meanwhile was still in a vicious blood frenzy until the realization that Leliana was ok finally hit her. She just about managed to come over, smile a relieved smile, stop tapping into the power of her blood only to then promptly collapse from the blood loss. She was not unconscious, luckily, but too weak and dizzy to stay on her feet.

 

“Urgh...” Oghren toed Xolana carefully. “Commander? We're all happy that Leliana is ok but... I think we're gonna have to carry this one.”

 

“Xolana!” Leliana scrambled to her feet. “Wynne you need to help her!”

 

Conrí strode over, kneeled down and lifted Xolana’s head onto his leg. “Come on, Amell. We didn't piss of a dragon to save you only to have you die from blood loss. You have to stay awake.”

 

Xolana, still somewhat delirious, mumbled out, “Conrí? Dragon? Stop being silly — Leli isn't a dragon... But she's safe, right...?”

 

Wynne grabbed Xolana’s hands and began healing them, tutting all the while. “You and I need to have a long conversation, young lady.”

 

Xolana cringed as Wynne addressed her in that strict voice. “Sorry Wynne... please don't tell Cullen... He'll lock me up and leer at me all day again...”

 

“Can I shut it up? Please?” Shale grumbled. “Crush its skull, perhaps?”

 

“I'm pretty sure crushing skulls isn't how you heal someone,” Oghren commented dryly, eyeing Wynne's attempts to heal her younger counterpart with some residual suspicion towards magic.

 

“Come on, Shale,” Serena stood and slapped the golem on the back, trying to find a more constructive outlet for Shale's aggression. “Let's check the perimeter, we might find other things for you to crush, ok?”

 

“Right behind you, Princess,” Garik remarked, earning him a backhand to the stomach from Serena.

 

“Is she going to be okay, Wynne?” Leliana asked worriedly.

 

“Yes,” the elder mage nodded. “Thankfully it's just blood loss and magical exhaustion. With a good rest she'll be up and about shortly.” Following her statement, she poured a health potion down Xolana’s throat with, perhaps, a bit more force than strictly necessary.

 

“Is she alright to move?” Conrí asked, giving Wynne a slight frown at her roughness. 

 

“Yes. I don't think she'd much appreciate being here longer than she has to,” Wynne grumped, pouring a small amount of lyrium into Xolana’s mouth with noticeably more gentleness. 

 

Conrí lifted Xolana off the ground with ease after she’d swallowed and followed Serena, Garik and Shale with Leliana right next to the pair.

  


“I could use a drink. Or several,” Oghren grumped.

 

“Might I trouble you for one?” Wynne asked.

 

“Knew you'd be back,” Oghren chuckled and took a pull from his flask before handing it to Wynne.

 

“Mm,” Wynne hummed, enjoying the flavor. “You must tell me your recipe.”

 

“You got it.”

* * *

 

A few hours later, Conrí came back to the camp, toweling his hair off from the mineral spring he’d bathed in. The water had been much too harsh to drink so they’d elected to use it to bath. 

 

Leliana followed with a towel around her neck. “How is she?” she asked Wynne. 

 

“Stable. She should wake anytime now,” the elder mage commented, brushing out her white hair.

 

Xolana was still sleep mumbling about Dragons, Cullen, Leliana and, most unsettlingly, blood.

 

“I have an idea,” Conrí said with an evil grin. He leaned down and barked, “Xolana wake up! Leliana's running around naked and you're missing it.”

 

Xolana’s eyes flew open as she tried to shoot upright but then quickly collapsed back down onto the bedroll because she was still a bit dizzy from the blood loss. After a few moments she recovered enough to glare at Conrí. “You are an evil commander, Conrí. Evil.”

 

Conrí smirked, his steely blue eyes glinting with mischief. “You love it.”

 

“Why do I always have to be naked during these wake up calls?” Leliana wondered, a bit pink in the cheeks. 

 

“Because a naked Leliana is an irresistible Leliana? How could I possibly sleep through that?” Xolana asked with her trademark smirk.

 

Wynne put a hand over her eyes. “Children...”

 

Xolana abruptly realized Wynne was still there and started remembering why she was in that position in the first place. A feeling of dread began to pool in her stomach. She cleared her throat after a somewhat awkward silence. “So, anyway, Leliana, I'm glad you're ok. You had me really worried there...” The entire time she spoke, Xolana kept glancing at Wynne, wondering when the older woman was going to start taking her apart.

 

“I'm sorry,” Leliana mumbled. “And thank you so much for helping me. If you hadn't I might be-”

 

“Hey, don't think like that,” Conrí interrupted. “What matters is you're safe and the Broodmother is dead.”

 

Xolana still shuddered at the mention of that word. “... Yeah. Quite,” she stared at Wynne for a few more moments, then sighed because she hated herself for what she was about to say next. “So,” she hesitated. “I appreciate that you are both here and all, but I think Wynne and I need to talk for a bit...”

 

Conrí caught the awkward stare. “Sure. When you're done, there's a mineral spring over there. I'm sure you want a bath.”

 

Xolana nodded but mumbled to herself. “If I'm still alive, that is.”

 

Conrí nodded. “Come on, Leli. Need to make sure the Dwarves and the golem aren't getting into too much trouble.” Leliana sent Xolana an encouraging smile as she left with Conrí.

  


Xolana stared awkwardly in silence at Wynne for a while. Eventually it became so tense the loquacious mage couldn’t really shut up anymore. “Wynne, I-..”

 

Wynne held up a hand to quiet her. “Xolana Amell, do you have any idea how dark the magic you used was?” Xolana cringed, shut her mouth and nodded. “The Magisters of the Tevinter Imperium thrived on such magic. What possessed you to resort to such abominable spells?”

 

Xolana sat in awkward silence for a bit while trying to find words. “Wynne I-, I'm sorry but I just...”

 

“But you what?” Wynne prompted sharply.

 

“Look I... I got scared,” Xolana admitted. “I got so incredibly scared. The Broodmother and the constant underground and darkness and then, when I saw Leliana being taken I-, I snapped. I didn't even mean to use so many spells. At first I was just going to use one spell to even the playing field, but then it just...”

 

“Xolana, I understand you wanted to protect your friend, but you need to control yourself better. You are a Grey Warden now. That means many eyes will be on you. The templars might not be able to get their hands on you now, but they can make life very difficult for both you and your compatriots.”

 

“Wynne, I know that, but...” Xolana began sounding more and more scared. “I don't know what happened. I've never had a problem controlling it before. I was always wary about using it, always holding back, never willing to give in because I know... I know how dangerous, how dark this magic is, how easy it is to lose yourself in it. But today, it was like all of that suddenly no longer mattered,” Xolana furrowed her brows. “No — not even that. It was like all of that was gone. None of that even existed in my mind. There was just a friend in danger, and the power to protect them. Nothing else even registered.”

 

Wynne frowned. “Has this happened before?”

 

Xolana shook her head. “Never like this. Right at the beginning when Uldred convinced us to learn from him, to follow him — it was never this extreme, but it was intoxicating. Most of us were overwhelmed by the power. When I saw the first of us go all but completely bloodlust-crazy, I started being careful. I've never let it go this far.”

 

“This sounds like Conrí. Just after he drank Draco's blood, his temper was so short… Did Draco give you his blood?”

 

Xolana shook her head. “I was there, but no. I didn't have his blood.”

 

“And you've made no deals?” Wynne pushed.

 

Xolana’s head shook once again. “Nothing, Wynne. It's just this power. This darkness.”

 

Wynne nodded. “Then perhaps I can help. When I was younger my magic used to flare up. My mentor taught me to meditate. Would that be something you'd be willing to try?”

 

“I'll try anything if it gives me a chance to not lose myself,” Xolana muttered.

 

“Very well. Go have your bath. After supper, we will begin,” Wynne prompted.

 

Xolana nodded but didn't look like she was about to move. She looked at Wynne curiously. “Wynne, you...”

 

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

 

“You are... not angry at me?” Xolana asked. “I honestly thought you would... well, insist that Conrí give me over to the Templars. I could even understand why you would.”

 

“Even if I wanted to, you know as well I do Conrí would nail me to a wall,” Wynne chuckled, remembering how firmly the young man stood his ground. “I'd much rather help you.”

 

“You...” Xolana finally managed to crack a smile again. “You've changed as well, haven't you? Thank you Wynne.” Xolana hesitated at first, but then sat up enough to drag the white haired mage into a hug.

 

Wynne was surprised at first but returned the hug. “It's alright, dear. I'll help you get through this.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, the group finally found where Branka had camped most recently. The fire was snuffed mere hours before.

  
“If Branka is anywhere, this has to be it,” Oghren rumbled. “She will not be unprepared.”

 

Conrí glanced at the dwarf and nodded.

 

Xolana, bursting with energy now, nearly shouted, “Well what are we waiting for, then!?” 

 

“Calm it, Amell,” Tristan advised. “We have no idea what might be waiting for us there.”

 

“He's right, we must be cautious,” Tira agreed, arrow notched just in case.

 

Conrí spun around as a trap was activated behind them, bringing up a rock wall. “Fuck...”

 

A middle aged dwarven woman strode onto the overhanging plateau in front of them. “Let me be blunt with you. After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly limited. That doesn't bother you, I hope.”

 

“Well, shave my back and call me an elf! Branka?!” Oghren crowed. “By the Stone, I barely recognize you!”

 

“Oghren,” Branka nodded, obviously not as pleased at this reunion as her husband. “It figures you would eventually find your way here. Hopefully you can find your way back more easily. And how shall I address you? Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or the only one who could tolerate Oghren's ale breath?”

 

“Be respectful, woman!” Oghren growled, surprising Serena with the change in tone. “You're talking to a Grey Warden!”

 

“Ah, so an important errand girl then. I suppose something serious has happened. Is Endrin dead? That seems the most likely. He was on the old and wheezy side.”

 

Serena grit her teeth. “My father is dead, yes, and the Assembly is deadlocked. Bhelen needs your support for the throne.”

 

“A king won't defeat a blight,” Branka snapped. “We've had forty generations of kings and lost everything. I don't care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne. Because our Great protector, our great invention, the thing that made our army the envy of the world is lost to the very darkspawn it should be fighting! The Anvil of the Void! The means by which the ancients forged their army of golems and held off the first archdemon ever to rise. It’s here! So close, I can taste it!”

 

“But of course there's a catch...” Garik muttered.

 

“The Anvil lies on the other side of a gauntlet of traps designed by Caridin himself,” Branka continued as if the rogue hadn’t spoken. “My people and I have given body and soul to unlock its secrets.”

 

“Emphasis on ‘and soul’ by the looks of things...” Xolana muttered. 

 

“Why can these things never be simple?” Tristan griped.

 

“This is what's important, this has lasting meaning!” Branka ranted. “If I succeed the Dwarven people benefit! Kings, politics, all of this is transitory. I've given up everything and would sacrifice anything to get the Anvil of the Void!”

 

“You're obsessed!” Tira snapped. “This must be why Caridin locked the Anvil away!”

 

“I tire of these banalities,” Morrigan sneered. “Can't we just get on with it and fight our way through this crazed woman already?”

 

“Even if we wanted to...” Conrí growled. “She has the high ground.”

 

“I will not give up,” Branka spat. “His legacy lies just on the other side. There is only one way out, Wardens. Through Cardin’s traps and out through the Anvil of the Void.”

 

“What has this place done to you?!” Oghren snarled. “I remember marrying a girl you could speak to for one minute and see her brilliance!”

 

“I am your Paragon,” Branka sneered, walking away.

 

Oghren sighed and forced a chuckle. “Good ol' Branka. She's a bit... abrasive, isn't she? Guess I forgot about that part of her screeching in my ear every sodding day. Oh, well. We'll get her the Anvil, then she'll come home and everything will be better...”

 

Conrí turned his eyes warily to the red headed berserker. Who are you trying to convince? Us.... or yourself?

 

“Uh, Oghren…" Xolana was silenced quickly by the looks Conrí and Leliana threw her. “...let's just get through to the Anvil.”

 

“Shale, we're gonna need your help here,” Conrí said gruffly.

 

“Very well,” the golem nodded. “I am very interested to see what lies beyond, myself. I will do as it asks.”

 

* * *

 

The traps were clever; worthy of the mind of a paragon, but Serena and Garik helped the others navigate the maze. 

 

Serena strode next to Shale as the team entered the main chamber. “The Lyrium veins in here are so thick, it’s almost like the temple behind Haven,” Serena commented.

 

“Sodding hell!” Garik exclaimed as he examined the several inert golems lining the hall. “I think — yes, this symbol! This is what's left of the Legion of Steel!”

 

Serena glanced at the confused looks on many of her companions’ faces and explained quickly. “In the second year of the reign of Queen Getha, one hundred and twenty six golems, the entire Legion of Steel, were sent to recover the Paragon Caridin. None returned,” she frowned. “Of 126 golems, only 12 remain? Hm...”

 

“That sounds like it doesn't bode well,” Xolana muttered.

 

Garik turned to the largest golem, this one black with a skull-like helm for a face. “My name is Caridin,” the golem spoke, it’s booming voice echoing in its helm. “Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar.”

 

Xolana glanced uneasily between Shale and Caridin. “Shale, tell me this rings a bell. Please.”

 

“And that we're not about to be attacked by those things,” Tristan added.

 

Shale however was gob smacked and barely heard the pair of mages. “Caridin? The Paragon Smith? Alive?!”

 

“Ah, there is a voice I recognize,” a smile seemed to enter Caridin’s voice. “Shayle of the house of Cadash. Step forward.”

 

“We are in no danger at the moment, little mages,” Shale assured the nervous pair.

 

“I distinctly heard Shale say ‘at the moment,’” Xolana squeaked. “I don't like this.”

 

“You know my name Caridin,” Shale rumbled. “Was it you who forged me? Was it you who gave me my name?”

 

“Then... you do not remember?” Caridin sighed. “It has been so long. I made you into the Golem you are now, Shayle, but before that, you were a dwarf, just as I was. The finest warrior to serve king Valtor and the only woman to volunteer.”

 

“Woman?” Leliana cocked her head. “Oh my. That explains the stones.”

 

“Explains a lot of things, actually,” Conrí nodded.

 

“The only... woman?! A dwarf?!” Shayle stared.

 

“I laid you on the Anvil of the Void,” Caridin intoned. “Here in this very room and put you into the form you now possess.”

 

“The Anvil of the Void...” Shayle rumbled. “That is what we seek.”

 

“If you seek the Anvil, you must care about my story, or be doomed to repeat it,” Caridin warned.

 

“So you want something...” Garik sighed. “Everyone does.”

 

“I do,” Caridin nodded. “I lived to insure the Anvil was never used again. Now it never shall be. I made many things in my time, but I rose to Paragon because of a single invention. The Anvil of the Void. It allowed me to make a man of steel or stone, as flexible and clever as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible... But I told no one the cost...”

 

“The... cost?” Serena grimaced.

 

Cardin nodded wearily. “No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my creations live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere...” Xolana, Wynne and Tristan all went deathly pale. “The darkspawn were pressing in. Originally, I only took volunteers, like Shayle, the bravest souls who were willing to trade their very lives for the chance to defend their home land. But King Valtor became greedy. He began to force men; casteless and criminals... his political enemies... all of them were given to the Anvil. It took feeling the hammers blow myself to realize the height of my crimes... I managed to subdue the few members of the legion sent to find me. We have been entombed here ever since. I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil. Alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch the Anvil.”

 

“This thing must be destroyed at once, you can't let it continue to exist!” said Wynne without hesitation.

 

“As useful as golems may be, I don't like the sound of this thing either, Conrí,” Xolana agreed.

 

“This isn't my choice to make,” Conrí sighed, looking to Serena, Garik and Oghren. Serena swallowed hard.

 

“No!” Branka bayed, sprinting into the chamber. “The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!”

 

“Did someone order a helping of crazy?” Garik growled, his hands itching at the daggers in his belt. “That sure as nugdung isn't gonna help us make this choice!”

 

“Shayle, please,” Caridin begged. “You fought to destroy the Anvil once. Do not allow it to fall into unthinking hands again!”

 

“You speak of things I do not remember! You say we fought… Did you use our control rods to compel us to do so?” Shayle demanded angrily.

 

“I destroyed the rods,” Caridin snapped. “Maybe my apprentices learnt enough to replace the rods — I don’t know — but if so, then all they would need is the Anvil to make all the slaves they require!”

 

“Why are you even listening?” Branka sneered. “We had an agreement, Warden! I’m the one you have tried to find, after all… not him! Don’t listen to that old fool. He’s been trapped down here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness!”

 

“I don't recall an agreement and, frankly, you are quite mad yourself,” Xolana growled. “I think we're choosing between the lesser of two evils here.”

 

Branka was almost foaming at the mouth by this point. “Help me to claim the Anvil and you’ll have an army like none ever seen before!”

 

Serena, speaking for the first time since Cardin's speech, interjected. “Xolana is right. We never agreed to such a thing. This creation must be destroyed.”

 

“So it fights along with Caridin? Good, this seems right,” Shale nodded.

 

“Thank you, my friend. Your compassion shames me,” Caridin sighed.

 

“Branka, you mad bleeding nugtail!” Oghren barked. “Does this thing mean so much to you, you can’t even see what you’ve lost to get it? “

 

“Look around you, Oghren!” Branka wailed. “Is this what our empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel, overflowing with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory, and you will not take it from me!”

 

“Branka, don’t throw your life away for this!” Oghren pleaded.

 

“Oghren, she’s obsessed beyond reason,” Serena sighed. “I fear there is only one way this can end...”

 

“Just give her the blasted thing!” Oghren growled, his eyes wild and terrified. “She’s confused; maybe once she calms down, we can talk some sense into her...”

 

Serena shook her head. “I’m truly sorry, Oghren… but that is a risk I am not willing to take.”

 

“Oghren, I'm sorry but you have to see there is no other way. The Branka you once knew is gone,” Xolana said softly.

 

“Bah,” Branka scoffed. “You are not the only master-smith here, Caridin!” she drew a thin iron rod from her belt and pressed her finger to a small switch at its base. “Golems, obey me! Attack!” Almost instantly, the formation of golems sprang to life, opening and closing their fists and advancing.

 

Caridin seemed to freeze up, unable to move. “A control rod!” he gasped. “My friends, you must help me! I cannot stop her alone!”

 

“These things never do end peacefully, do they?” Xolana muttered, leaping into the fray.

“We should crush the mad wife quickly,” Shayle barked.

 

“Sounds good to me,” Conrí retorted glibly, his mouth quirking into a grin of bravado even as his eyes warily looked for a way to defeat the enclosing circle of stone behemoths. The rest of the party looked similarly apprehensive, and all the while, the mad dwarf ranted and raved at the top of her voice, a mixture of threats, curses and profanities.

 

“Kill them all, you stone buffoons! No, perhaps I will take you meddling fools alive and place you on the Anvil, make you slave for me for all eternity, punish you for trying to deny me my right! And as for you, Caridin, your apprentices might have been too dull-witted to fashion a proper control rod, but I am most assuredly not so stupid!”

 

Branka’s ranting threats turned into a pain-stricken wail as an arrow from the Bard’s bow slammed into her wrist, the shaft piercing through, the arrowhead protruding out of the other side of her arm, dripping blood. The control rod fell from limp fingers and the golems became inert once more. Shayle raced across the room to the stricken dwarf as the mad woman scrabbled on all fours, trying to recover the control rod. Branka’s left hand closed around the control rod and she let out a noise of triumph, getting to her feet and about to press the switch, only to notice the shadow that had fallen over her. She looked up only to see Shayle looming over her.

 

Quick as an adder, the golem’s right fist seized Branka by the throat, lifting her clean off the ground, while Shayle’s left hand seized Branka’s and squeezed, crushing armor, flesh and bone mercilessly, the dwarf screaming all the while as the control rod again clattered to the floor, first from pain, and then from rage.

 

“Put me down! Put me down at once, I command it! You golems are servants to the dwarven people, you were made to serve us and you will obey me! Release me this instant!” the mad dwarf screamed at the top of her voice.

 

“As you wish,” Shayle replied and, pulling her arm back, hurled the dwarf with incredible force. Branka’s screams continued as the Paragon flew across the room until her head connected with the stone wall at phenomenal speed, before sliding down the wall and crumpling in a broken heap at its base. Oghren gave a yell of shock and raced across to check his mad wife’s vitals, stopping when he saw that the upper right portion of her skull had been crushed into a gaping red crater unveiling cerebral matter, and realized that no one could survive such an impact.

 

“How could you!? How could you do — look at the sodding state of her!” the drunken dwarf raged, his eyes bulging, face nearly as red as his hair. “She was a sodding Paragon!”

 

“Was the woman not trying to kill the drunken dwarf as well? I was under the impression that saving a squishy mortal’s life was appreciated.”

 

None of the others could think of anything to say in response to that, though the drunkard opened and closed his mouth a few times. Once it became clear that he would not manage to formulate a coherent response, he merely contented himself with a sullen mutter: “Keep that walking statue away from me.” Shayle however felt justified. The mad dwarf had been just as annoying, and as equally deserving of being squished as Wilhelm.

 

“Another life lost due to my invention,” Caridin sighed. “I wish no mention of that accursed thing had ever made it into history.”

 

“Yeah, you ain’t kiddin,” Oghren muttered darkly. “Stupid woman… always knew the Anvil would be the death of her!”

 

“How is it the mad woman was not able to disable me as she did you, Caridin?” Shayle questioned.

 

“I do not know. Have you been altered, Shayle?” Caridin queried. 

 

“I once had a little pathetic mage of a master,” Shayle rumbled. “He did something to me, experimented on me. Then I killed him and it rendered me paralyzed.”

 

“Hmm,” Caridin stroked his iron chin. Serena could almost picture the dwarf he once was dragging fingers through a long beard. “Perhaps the mage was bringing forth old memories, and caused you to remember the time you fought at my side. The paralysis always occurred when the master perished. As for your free will… well, you were always a strong woman, Shayle. I am pleased to see you have remained as such.”

 

“Sounds like Shale alright,” Tristan agreed.

 

“But how are we supposed to destroy the anvil now?” Leliana asked, eyeing the massive golden construct.

 

“It is a powerful creation, one I cannot touch... but the hammer that forged it can still destroy it,” Caridin suggested. “Is there any boon I can grant you? A final favor before I am freed from my task?”

 

“I can think of nothing I want from you, Paragon,” Serena shook her head. “Out of all of us, Oghren has lost the most; if anyone has a right to ask for a boon of you, it is he.”

 

“I don’t suppose you could maybe… bring Branka back?” Oghren asked, a flicker of hope in his bloodshot eyes. “Make her a golem like you?”

 

But Caridin shook his head. “I would not do such a thing to her, even if I could.”

 

Oghren sighed. “Somehow I didn’t think so. Then I don’t want anything that could remind me of this; best it’s just done,” his eyes flickered again as a thought struck him. “There is, however, the matter of the election; I mean we need a Paragon’s support to deal with the Assembly.”

 

Caridin nodded. “For the aid you have given me, I will place hammer to steel one last time, to forge you a crown for the king of your choice. Wait here, stranger, it won’t take long.”

 

As Caridin moved off to work, Garik reached down, plucking the control rod Branka had dropped from the stone floor. “Hm…”

 

“If you even think about keeping that control rod, I will crush your skull right now!” Shayle barked.

 

“They were created to fight darkspawn, Shayle,” Garik said evenly. “It’s pointless to leave them down here to gather dust when they could be popping genlock skulls. I agree no more should be created, but the damage these few could wreak...”

 

“Could... whatever was done to you, Shayle, be repeated to the golems that still exist?” Xolana asked. “So that they can be offered a choice of fighting with us?”

 

“I suppose... it is possible...” Shayle contemplated.

 

“The dwarf speaks truly, Shayle,” Caridin rumbled as he picked up his hammer. “It does seem pointless to leave them here when the mission of your companions requires all the assistance it can obtain. This last vestige of the Legion of Steel are yours, rogue, on one condition.”

 

“Name it,” Garik said immediately. 

 

“When the Blight is done, you will shatter the control rod, so they may have the opportunity to regain themselves,” Caridin said. “If not, return them to the Stone, so that they may rest as the heroes of the Dwarven people they are.”

 

Garik nodded. “I agree.”

 

“Are you ok with that, Shayle?” Xolana piped up. “It seems reasonable to me.”

 

“...Yes, the more I think on it, the more I like the idea,” Shayle nodded. “Very well, the loud Dwarf shall not have his head crushed.”

 

“Yay?” Garik gulped.

 

“Hurrah, we all love each other again,” Tristan grumbled. “Now what of the Anvil.”

 

Caridin rejoined them after a while with the crown he’d promised. “There, it is done. Give it to whom you will. I do not care to know their names or anything else of them. I have already lived far beyond my time: I have no place here. Now it is time to fulfill your end of the bargain, Serena Aeducan.”

 

Serena nodded and grabbed the large hammer Caridin used to forge the crown. With a slightly regretful sigh, she reared back and struck the Anvil with all her strength, everyone watching in awe as the massive construct crumbled.

 

“It is finished,” Caridin sighed, a weight seemingly lifting from his old soul.

 

“But, where will you go?” Shayle glanced over to where Caridin was staring. A cliff overlooking a river of magma. “Surely you don’t mean to-?”

 

“I do,” Caridin nodded. “I lived to ensure the Anvil of the Void would never be used again. And now, it never shall. We all must have an end, Shayle. If the Ancestors will it, let yours be of your own choosing,” he proclaimed, setting a comradely hand on Shayle’s stony shoulder. “As for you, Serena Aeducan… you have my eternal thanks. Atrast nal tunsha… may you always find your way in the dark.” 

 

With that Caridin leaned forward and dropped the long way into the molten river. Everyone was silent for a long moment in remembrance of the paragon.

 

The silence was broken by a surly Oghren. “Well, that pretty much beat the sod out of how I imagined it,” Oghren grumbled to Serena. “Shall we start heading back? If we’re lucky, hopefully it won’t take us more than a week.”

 

“Yes, let’s go while a king is still of use to us,” Serena agreed. 

 

Oghren snorted. “Bah. Those deshyrs have been trying to destroy Orzammar for years. They haven’t managed it yet.”

 

After stopping briefly at a stone memorial backed by an unused Golem shell and copying the names of all those who volunteered to go through the process, the tired group headed back to the city.

 

They wrapped the amazing crown in a cloth before they entered Orzammar. They had washed and polished their armor after their last sleep, and marched in looking nearly respectable. Without delay they presented themselves at the Chamber of the Assembly, which was in complete chaos, as threats and insults echoed from the ancient walls.

 

Steward Bandelor gave Serena a look of desperate hope, when she appeared at the door of the Chamber. He proclaimed, “The Grey Warden has returned!” and the pandemonium hushed somewhat, while Serena strode to the center of the room. Oghren flanked her on one side, and Alistair, holding the hidden crown, on the other.

 

Serena looked at the bickering nobles without fear and without respect. These were her people, yet they’d thrown her away with no hesitation and many refused to see how far their glorious empire had fallen. Serena had no such qualms. It really was a wonder that Orzammar had survived at all, with leaders like this. Harrowmont and Bhelen stood above the fray, but were certainly part of it.

 

“Well, Warden? Have you news for us?” demanded the Steward.

 

“I bring a crown forged by Paragon Caridin on the Anvil of the Void,” Serena declared, as she flicked away the coarse linen. A gasp of wonder rose as Alistair lifted it up for their inspection.

 

Oghren took up the tale. He was even sober. “Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem. This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, and in exchange he forged a crown for Orzammar's next king, chosen by the Ancestors themselves!”

 

Serena had not quite believed that such a claim would be credited for an instant by anyone with a full set of wits, but Oghren had known his own people best and unlike Serena and Garik, had not been exiled. Only Harrowmont expressed doubt. “I would like to believe Oghren's tale, but everyone knows that the Grey Warden is Bhelen's hireling.”

 

The words were deeply offensive, but Serena only gave the elderly man a burning look. The old man had the decency to look abashed, and waited for the Steward to examine the crown himself. He said, deeply impressed, “Silence! This crown is of Paragon make and bears the seal of House Ortan. Tell us, Warden, who did Caridin choose?”

 

She smiled coldly, and made them wait, glancing over the room, watching the nobles eye each other, as they hoped to hear something to their advantage. From his place across the room, Bhelen stared at her with blazing expectation. She was not feeling particularly friendly to him at the moment, and so answered in a way calculated to make clear to him exactly how much he owed her. “Caridin left the choice entirely to me.”

 

An uproar. Harrowmont's supporters shook their staffs of office at her, and their leader shouted, “That is preposterous! Why would a Paragon leave the choice to a kin slayer?!”

 

“Because I was there, and you were not, my lords! I delivered him from his penance, and his gratitude was mine!”

 

Bandelor called the Assembly to order. “We have argued in these chambers too long. The will of the Paragon is that the Grey Warden shall decide. Tell us, Warden, who shall be King?”

 

“I grant the crown to Bhelen, son of Endrin.”

 

Bhelen stamped triumphantly, and roared, “At last! This farce is ended and I can take my place on my father's throne!” He sneered at Harrowmont, “Do you accept this?”

 

Harrowmont sank to one knee. “I cannot defy a Paragon. Take your throne, King Bhelen.”

 

Bhelen stepped forward, victorious, and Bandelor set the crown on his head, saying, “Let the memories find you worthy, first among the lords of the Houses, the King of Orzammar.”

 

* * *

 

Bhelen being Bhelen, Serena was not surprised that his first act of office was to call for Harrowmont's execution. There were quite a few executions that day, and Serena watched them impassively, Conrí scowling by her side. Alistair in particular was distressed by the idea that he had helped unleash a tyrant, but even he could not find fault with the honors and respect being heaped on the Wardens and their companions. Serena was even welcomed back into her family’s house with full honors.

 

“I remember, I remember,” Alistair muttered to Serena at the inevitable celebratory banquet. “Duncan always said we had to do whatever was necessary, but I'd rather be fighting darkspawn than playing politics!”

 

“You and me both,” Serena agreed, popping a slice of roast boar into her mouth.

 

Later that night, Leliana and Xolana noticed Conrí had slipped out at some point. Worried about some of Harrowmont’s lingering supporters, they walked around the Diamond Quarter before learning from a guardsman that he’d headed to the Commons. From there, the bartender at Tapsters said he’d stopped by for a pint before leaving again, saying he was headed to the gates if someone needed him. 

 

“Aye, he’s out there,” the gate guard nodded when questioned. “Said something about needing a breath of fresh air,” the dwarf shook his head. “Surfacers.”

 

The women smiled thinly. It was something neither side would ever understand. Surfacers would never comprehend why dwarves felt the need to have the crushing weight of a mountain overhead and the dwarves of Orzammar would never get why the Cloud heads needed that blighted abyss all around them. 

 

Xolana and Leliana went through the doors into the shocking cold. Winter had truly come to the Frostbacks. Clutching their new Red Lion fur cloaks around them, they spotted Conrí quickly, sitting on the ledge at the top of the stairs leading to Orzammar. Conrí looked back as the door clanked shut again, smiling warmly as he spotted who had followed him.

 

“I’m not surprised someone came looking,” he said with a soft chuckle.

 

“Harrowmont, even in death, has a lot of allies,” Leliana reasoned. “And you didn’t take your armor.”

 

Conrí shrugged and turned his attention back to the sky. “You never realize how much you take the night sky for granted until you spend months with a mountain over your head.”

 

“I know what you mean,” Leliana agreed, sitting next to Conrí on his right as Xolana took his left. “But that is not the only reason you’re out here, is it?”

 

Conrí shrugged again. “It’s part of the reason. The other… I don’t know, honestly. Something about tonight just seems… special.” The three sat in comfortable silence for a little while before Conrí spotted something coming up from the south. He smiled and said softly, “Look.” He pointed to what looked like odd rays of light drawing closer.

 

Xolana and Leliana’s eyes widened in awe as the lights swam over head. Blues, greens, oranges and reds danced through sky. Xolana remembered reading about these in the tower, though had never seen one through the scattered windows. “An aurora…” 

 

Conrí nodded. “The Avvar and the Ash Warriors call it Sky-Fire. It’s said that those who witness it are blessed by the Lady of the Skies. A good omen.”

 

Xolana smiled. “You never struck me as the superstitious type, Conrí.”

 

Conrí chuckled. “I’m not, but… well, it never hurts to hope for a little luck, eh?”

 

Xolana nodded, wrapping her arms around one of Conrí’s and leaning into him. Conrí smiled and wrapped an arm around Leliana, letting her snuggle into his side as well. The trio watched the dazzling lightshow long into the night, departing for bed only when the last rays faded from sight. 

 


	36. A New Reason to Fight

 

“Was the sun always that bright?” Conrí wondered aloud as he squinted his eyes against the midday light. 

 

After weathering the worst of the Fereldan winter in Orzammar, the group spent one more month in the stone city following their return from the Deep Roads before departing. To the group’s eternal worry, they discovered they had been in the darkspawn infested tunnels for nearly twice that amount of time. With the Archdemon on the move, they had to wonder just how much time they had left to unite Fereldan against the horde. 

 

Despite his initial surliness, Oghren soon opened up a bit to the Wardens, Conrí especially. Admittedly, this may have just been from Conrí’s tolerance of the brash drunk’s behavior when few others seemed able to stomach it for too long. A few weeks into their stay, Conrí began learning the dwarf’s berserker discipline — if one could use such a term for the set of skills required to harness rage and destroy anything before oneself. Conrí was, or so Oghren decided after a few lessons, a natural, able to turn that killing rage on in a moment’s notice.

 

“Something’s had you steamed up for a long time, eh?” Oghren had said.

 

Conrí had nodded with a sour, “You could say that,” before they continued their training

 

“I don't remember it being quite so illuminated out here,” Leliana was agreeing now, shielding her face.

 

“Sun, I feel betrayed by you!” Xolana whined. “I thought you were my friend!”

 

Garik and Serena stood in the background, mumbling irritably about how the humans and elves all thought they had felt the first time they stepped up to the surface. Oghren, however, was not quite daring to take that last step beyond the doors yet, staring up at the sky in a mixture of wonder and sheer terror. 

 

“Well, excuse me a moment,” Tira sighed before moving off. “I need to find a tree to hug.”

 

Conrí chuckled as Xolana desperately bit back a "tree hugger" comment, turning to Oghren instead. “So, you going to come out now or what?” she asked the drunken berserker.

 

“Yeah, yeah just... just gimme a minute,” Oghren grunted before trailing off, mumbling.

 

“Sure. Take your time,” Conrí nodded, remembering Serena and Garik’s first steps beyond the Deep Roads.

 

“By the stone...” Oghren wheezed. “It feels like I’m gonna fall off the world with all that sky up there!”

 

“I remember that feeling,” Serena nodded. “It passes.”

 

“You know, the funny thing about gravity is, it doesn't stop working just because you no longer have a roof above your head,” Xolana pointed out with a bit of exasperation.

 

Tristan elbowed her. “Be nice, Amell. As if you knew what to do with yourself at first when you finally got out of the tower.”

 

“She was dumbstruck all the way across the lake,” Erin snickered.

 

“Thanks, guys,” Xolana pouted.

 

Tira returned a moment later with bits of leaves in her hair. “I feel better now. Did I miss something?”

 

“No,” Xolana shook her head, oggling the state of the Ranger’s hair with an increasingly uncouth smirk gracing her features. “Just hugging, and just trees, right?”

 

“There may have been a chaste kiss involved,” Tira admitted, smiling at Erin. “Don't worry ma Vhenan. No tree could ever replace you.”

 

Xolana, pretending to be utterly distressed, dramatic hand to forehead and all, cried out, “Oh, why most you hurt me so, my love?” 

 

Complete with a cheeky wink at Erin, of course.

 

“Not quite the reaction I was considering, but quite,” Erin droned, utterly unimpressed. “I don't know how I would feel if I truly was replaced by a tree.”

 

“Funny you ladies should mention it,” Zevran cut in with a grin. “I did once encounter a lady with really rather insatiable appetites...”

 

“Oh shut up, elf, before I throw up all over your fancy boots,” Oghren barked.

 

“You scoundrel!” Zevran mock gasped. “Still insisting on maintaining the elf/dwarf rivalry, I see?”

 

“Sod that,” Oghren grumbled. “Princess and Lady Tree Hugger have that covered. But how's a dwarf to focus simultaneously on wild tales of debauchery and not falling into the sky!?”

 

“Do not worry, my stocky little friend! I shall hold you close and safe should I notice you start to float away.” Zevran said cheerfully, while Oghren mumbled obscenities.

 

Xolana, having been silenced by the ensuing conversation and staring at the men’s banter together with Erin and Tira, finally addressed the women without looking away from the boys. “I sense the beginnings of a beautiful bromance. This is the stuff of dirty romance novels, you know that, right?”

 

Tristan, hearing his longtime friend speak, groaned in exasperation. “Oh by the Maker, there she goes again. What was that term you coined? Something utterly ridiculous... ‘fan-fiction?!’ Just please, Amell, do everyone here a favor and don't go there again.”

 

Conrí having heard enough, head-slapped Zevran and Oghren and sent Xolana a ‘quit while you're behind’ look. While Oghren and Zevran grumbled and moved apart again, the Blood Mage made a beeline for Zevran. “So, about that woman you mentioned. I do believe there was a tree involved...”

 

“Xolana.”

 

Xolana yelped and ducked away to escape Conrí’s ire, but not before mouthing to Zevran, “Later! Don't you dare forget!” with a smirk. Zevran smirked back and nodded with a wink.

 

Conrí shook his head. “It's always the crazy ones...”

  
“Don't even pretend you don't love it by now!” Erin chuckled.

 

“Is it finally going to give the order to move out, or must we continue suffering this mind-numbing chatter?” Shayle asked with an agitated rumble.

 

“Ah Shayle. After all we found out in the Deep, your attitude makes much more sense,” Conrí chuckled. “But, you have a point. We have a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time to do it. Let's go.”

 

_ [Flashback] _

 

“’Shayle of House Cadash…’” Shayle mumbled as she examined the rubbings taken from the memorial in Caridin’s fortress. They had left Bownammar behind them about an hour before, and had begun making their way back to Orzammar. “Is that who I once was? I find this difficult to believe.”

 

Xolana sent the golem a quizzical look. “You’re doubting Caridin now?”

 

“No,” Shayle said softly, her tone surprising the group. “I do not doubt him. I simply… cannot remember. If I was this Shayle of House Cadash as Caridin said, there must be some evidence of my existence remaining. I must find it.”  
  
“Perhaps the Shaperate will have some records?” Serena suggested, though her tone was uncertain.

 

“There is another way,” Shayle shook her massive stone head. “What Caridin said, it has allowed me to remember one thing. I believe I know where Cadash Thaig is.”  
  
“We can head there, if you like, Shayle,” Conrí suggested. “We’re in the Deeps anyway.”

 

“Its offer is appreciated,” Shayle nodded. “As is the practicality. If I could see its map, I could show it. If we can journey there soon, I am most curious as to what we might find.”

 

A few days later and a ways south of Caridin’s Cross, Conrí yanked his blade from the corpse of a hurlock. It seemed the darkspawn used the ruins of the Thaig as a resting place during marches to other areas of the Deep Roads. Little was tainted, and there was no disgusting growths on the walls. 

 

“This is it,” Shayle breathed, touching an ancient pillar, weathered with time. “Cadash Thaig.”

 

“This is where you’re from?” Tristan asked.

 

“Perhaps. It may also be where I was found. These ruins are always overrun by vermin. There may be something further in, however.”

 

“Well, if there’s fightin’ to be done, I’m yer dwarf, Stone Britches,” Oghren grunted. 

 

“I am so pleased,” Shayle droned, her familiar drawl creeping back. 

 

The group continued deeper into the Thaig, weapons kept close in case of danger.

 

“Was this a home once?” Shayle wondered aloud as they passed a surprisingly undamaged building. “Did live here?”

 

Though the darkspawn’s presence was felt little on the stones of the Thaig, there were still a good deal of them. To prevent their filth from infecting the area, the mages burned the corpses of all darkspawn slain as they moved through the old dwarven settlement.

 

“I see nothing,” Shayle mumbled as they crossed a bridge. “Whatever was once here is gone.”

 

Darkspawn weren’t the only vermin they happened across. Deepstalkers and even a few brontos accosted them as they made their way through the Thaig. 

 

“Crawling with filth,” Shayle sneered as she crushed a deepstalker under her massive foot. “There.” She eventually pointed to a massive statue of a paragon, likely Cadash himself, in the distance. “That may be what I seek.”

 

“I damn sure hope so,” Conrí grunted tossing aside the corpse of another deepstalker, which he had just moments before snapped the neck of.

 

“As do I,” Shayle agreed, stomping off.

 

Unlike the previous skirmishes, the darkspawn near the statue where joined by an Ogre Alpha, but Shayle proved once again why innumerable dwarves gave themselves up to be encased in stone or steel. Her heavy granite fists splintered the bones of even the mighty Ogre Alpha, its bulk doing little to protect it from the determined golem. Soon enough, Shayle had wounded its arm so greatly that it couldn’t catch Tira as she vaulted off the Golem’s shoulder and stabbed her blade directly into its blackened heart. The beast toppled with a roar as Tira wrenched her blade free and drove it into the bony crest on the Ogre’s head, splitting it and piercing the brain.

 

“A skilled maneuver,” Shayle commented. “Though I do not appreciate being used as a stepping stone.”

 

“Don’t take it personally, Shayle,” Conrí chuckled. “Bloody elves do it to me, too.”

 

“That’s what you get for being such a lug of a warrior, Commander,” Xolana snickered. 

 

Shayle ignored the ensuing good natured bickering and approached the statue. 

 

“What is this?” she mumbled. “This… this I remember. It has dates and names. This is to honor those who volunteered, those who became Golems. And there is my name. Shayle of House Cadash. Just as Caridin said. I remember now. I remember Shayle. That… was me.”

 

“You do? That’s wonderful!” Leliana gushed.  
  
“Wonderful to remember being a soft, squishy creature of flesh?” Shayle snarked. “Perhaps. I will need to think on these things I have learned. Perhaps I will speak to it of them soon,” she turned to look at Conrí so he knew he was the ‘it’ Shayle referred to. “For now, let us carry on as we have.”

 

_ [End Flashback] _

 

“I have a question for the Silver Dwarf, if it will indulge me,” Shayle queried as the group trudged through the snow. 

 

“Of course,” Serena nodded.

 

“It chose to side with Caridin and destroy the Anvil of the Void,” Shayle rumbled. “I agree with its decision, and yet the Paragon Branka was the reason it ventured into the Deep Roads. Why did it choose to defy her? It could not have know for certain that Caridin would be able to assist it with its kin.”

 

“You vouched for Caridin,” Serena said simply. “Anyone you trust is someone I believe I can.”

 

Shayle seemed very taken aback. “I… I am pleased then. I had no idea that was why it did that. At any rate, I wanted to thank it. It gave Caridin the end he wanted and I am pleased to have been a part of it. I will have to think on Caridin’s words to me. It was… a great deal to absorb. But for now, let us go on.”

 

* * *

 

 “Xolana?” Tristan approached his friend during a quiet moment after they’d set up camp in the bannorn. 

 

Xolana, deep in thought over some tome, looked up, her eyes slightly unfocused from the change in attention. “Hmm? What’s up?”

 

“Would you mind walking with Morrigan and me?” Tristan asked, shuffling his feet nervously. “We need to talk to you — away from your redheaded guardians.”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow as she eyed his nervous demeanour and eventually stood up with a sigh, putting the book away. “I'm not going to like this, am I? But the least I can do is listen to whatever it is you both need. Lead the way.”

 

Tristan led her a ways into the woods where Morrigan was waiting. “You remember me mentioning that I found Flemeth's Grimoire in the circle, right?” the witch began without preamble.

 

Xolana nodded. “Yeah, I remember,” she nodded to Morrigan as they approached. “And you were studying it, weren’t you, Morrigan?”

 

“Indeed,” Morrigan acknowledged. “And what I found... it disturbs me greatly.”

 

“This doesn’t bode well. What did you find?” Xolana asked, concerned.

 

“I had always wondered how Flemeth lived for so long. You know the tales of her many daughters, yes?” When her friend nodded, the witch continued. “I had never met a sister nor has my mother spoken of any; and now I know why. They are all Flemeth.”

 

Xolana stared in confusion. “I'm not sure I like where you're going with this.”

 

“When her body becomes old and wizened, Flemeth will raise a daughter, and when she is old enough, take possession of her body,” Morrigan elaborated. “I recognize all of it... the training, the lessons... I am to be the next host.”

 

“I... shit. You think she's raised you to possess you?” Xolana was stunned.

 

“That is primarily what the tome entails,” Morrigan grit her teeth. “There can be only one recourse. Flemeth has to die.”

 

Xolana stared in horror. “You are certain there's no other interpretation of this tome? Because what you're asking, whilst understandable, would be no simple task, I hope you realize that.”

 

“I am quite certain,” Morrigan stated firmly. “And I know this would be no small feat, but... I need your help, Xolana.”

 

Xolana pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought hard. “It just makes no sense — send you off with the Wardens, on a suicide mission? If she went through such a long, painstaking process to — to what? Prepare you?” Xolana shuddered at the thought. It was the concept of a mother possessing her daughter that convinced her, making her look up at Morrigan with determination. “I'll do what I can to help.”

 

“Thank you,” Morrigan breathed. “I regret to ask more of you but... it may or may not have slipped your notice, but I am not exactly the most popular among our companions. I need your help convincing them.”

 

Xolana nodded again. “Yes. The three of us alone, whilst powerful, would still be no match for Flemeth — especially if what you said is true. But even if I agree to help you, not everyone will follow.”

 

“I know,” Morrigan acknowledged. “However, if you convince the Commander, most of the Wardens will follow, even if they dislike me.”

 

“That is true. I... would you mind if I spend a little time studying the grimoire myself?” Xolana asked. “It will help your case if I don't just take your word for it but can explain from my own understanding why we need to do this.”

 

“Can you read old Arcanum?” Morrigan asked, slightly skeptical.

 

“Mostly, yes,” Xolana admitted, refraining from bristling at Morrigan’s skepticism. “Enough to get the gist, anyway.”

 

Morrigan pulled the tome from her pack. “While there is no time limit on this, I urge you to learn what you can quickly.”

 

Xolana took the ancient book with great care and looked at the cover with concentrated furrows on her brow. “I won't take long over it, I swear. We have a quiet journey for a few days yet, and both Conrí and Leliana still fret after I was injured, so I can get on the cart to read for a while even as we travel. We will speak to them tomorrow night, before we even reach the Hinterlands of Redcliffe.”

 

“I am grateful,” Morrigan sighed.

 

“I know this is a lot of trouble to go through, Amell, so I am too,” Tristan agreed.

  
“It's ok. If it means your safety, it's worth it,” Xolana turned to leave but then stopped halfway and slowly turned back to Morrigan. “I know you say that our companions don't like you, but I think you underestimate how readily they would defend you if necessary. And I also wanted you to know — I think of you as a friend. Not just because you're in a relationship with Tristan. For who you are. We'll sort this mess out, together. I promise.” Xolana turned again and made her way back to her tent, grimoire carefully cradled to her chest.

 

For once, Morrigan had no idea what to say and didn’t protest as Tristan wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, after reading most of the day, Xolana shut the tome with a heavy sigh and rested her head against it. “What on Thedas have we gotten ourselves into...” 

 

She rose from her place near the fire and made her way to Conrí with the grimoire. “Conrí?” she muttered quietly to avoid attracting unwanted attention from the others traveling with them. “I need to talk to you about something. Could we...?” she continued, indicating to a more private area nearby.

 

Conrí, about to make a smart comment, noted how serious his fellow Warden was. “Sure,” he set down his ale skin and stood. “Come on. There's a small clearing not far.”

 

“Thank you,” Xolana mumbled, walking with him still clutching the tome. She sighed heavily when they arrived and stared at the leafless tree on the cover for a moment before looking up at Conrí. “So, this is Flemeth's grimoire. I've been studying it a bit. You remember Tristan found it for Morrigan?”

 

“I remember it being mentioned, yeah,” Conrí nodded. “You look troubled. What's wrong?”

 

“Well, it seems Morrigan got a bit more than we bargained for out of this tome. It describes many spells, procedures, the lot. But it seems that the ultimate point of almost the entire grimoire is to prepare a host for possession. We're pretty certain that Flemeth has lived so long by—” Xolana swallowed hard. “—by raising up her daughters, and possessing them. It seems Morrigan would be the next in line.”

 

Conrí’s eyes widened. “I see. You are sure of this?”

 

“I read the grimoire myself to verify,” Xolana nodded. “I will admit my Old Arcanum isn't as good as Morrigan's, but there is no other way to interpret what I did get from it. Also, Morrigan recognizes exactly the teachings and upbringing she received herself; it is mirrored in this tome. It is to be her.”

 

Conrí sighed and ran his fingers through his loose hair. “So what do we do about it? Is there a way to prevent possession?”

 

Xolana mirrored the Commander’s sigh. “That's the part that's most unclear to me. There's something about conditions to the possession beyond the preparations described, but I can't make it out well enough to tell you what they are supposed to be. Ultimately, though, whatever Flemeth is doing is... unnatural. You can cry about blood magic and the potential for mind control however much you want, but this — this literally extinguishes the host. Morrigan's body will be taken over, and all the things that make her as a person will be gone. This... I think we need a permanent solution to this. Just to think that such magic exists...”

 

“Great,” Conrí pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what do we do about this?”

 

“I...” Xolana mimicked him again, feeling a headache coming on. “I would not ask this lightly, Conrí, but Tristan, Morrigan and I agree. Flemeth needs to die.”

 

Conrí rubbed his forehead. “I was afraid you would say that. Sodding void. How do we go about that?”

 

“Well, it certainly won't be easy,” Xolana admitted. “But I would recommend we ask Morrigan. If you are really willing to help us.”

 

“As much as she grates on my nerves sometimes, I wouldn't wish possession on her,” Conrí said, slightly offended at Xolana’s insinuation.

 

“Thank you,” Xolana nodded gratefully. “Shall I go get her?”

 

Conrí nodded with a slight groan. “Yeah. I’m kind of wishing I hadn't left my ale at camp.”

 

Xolana gave him an indulgent smile. “I promise we'll get you back to that afterwards,” she strolled off and returned a few minutes later with Tristan and Morrigan.

 

“Does Xolana speak the truth?” Morrigan asked, her voice lacking the usual bite. “You wish to help us? I must admit, I did not believe you would.”

 

“You don't ask for small things,” Conrí grouched. “Do you have any suggestions about killing Flemeth?”

 

“While I believe it unlikely such a plan would succeed, I would recommend to surprise her rather than offer an outright fight,” Morrigan suggested. “She is powerful, and dangerous.”

 

“I really don't think that will work,” Xolana argued. “She will know that we are coming, and I doubt that she will think we came for some tea and a chat.”

 

“This is also true,” Morrigan acknowledged. “But whatever you do, there is one thing...”

 

“And that is?” Conrí sighed, bracing for more ill news.

 

“I cannot be there when you confront her,” Morrigan announced. 

 

Xolana looked to her friend, dumbstruck. “...Morri?”

 

“I am uncertain how this magic takes control,” Morrigan explained. “And how much ritual is necessary for the actual possession. It could be that she already has me prepared and will immediately possess me the moment she dies should I just be in the vicinity. I cannot risk being too close.”

 

“Ball,” Conrí shook his head. “Well, let's hope magebane works on her.”

 

“We will need to think of a strategy — and before I forget, Morrigan, here,” Xolana held out the grimoire. “Thank you for letting me read it. It is yours.”

 

Morrigan took the old book back carefully. “You have my thanks.”  


“Who is going to come with us? The three of us,” Tristan indicated Conrí, Xolana and himself. “Will already be a force to be reckoned with, but against Flemeth...” he trailed off.

 

“Maybe Shayle and Sten at least,” Conrí suggested.

 

Xolana nodded in agreement. “Heavy hitters. But will Sten agree?”

 

“A dangerous, unleashed mage who can turn into a dragon?” Conrí chuckled dryly. “He may even skip.”

 

A chuckle escaped Xolana’s lips before she brought herself back under control.

 

“A charming image,” Morrigan snarked. “And yet, I must thank you. I know what I ask of you is dangerous.”

  


“We have to make a stop at Redcliffe first. And we have... more business in that direction anyway,” Conrí hedged.

 

“Of course,” Morrigan agreed. “I would ask you do not delay, but I am grateful you are considering it at all.”

 

Xolana put a hand on Morrigan's shoulder. “Relax, Morrigan. We're going to take care of it.”  


“It will take some planning,” Conrí agreed. “I'll get Blair and Zev to work on some vials of Magebane. Concentrated if we're lucky. Don't worry; I’ll keep it far from you three.”

 

“Oh. Good,” Tristan sighed, having tensed the moment the mana sapping concoction was mentioned. “’Cause I was worried you were getting ideas.” Xolana elbowed the elven mage lightly.

 

Conrí rolled his eyes. “Like you and Soldierbane, yes?”

 

Xolana smirked as Tristan tried to find an excuse. “He got you there,” she snickered.

 

“The next time you leave an open vial of it anywhere near me, my boot will become intimately acquainted with your arse,” Conrí warned with a wolfish grin.

 

“I — uh — yes sir,” Tristan swallowed nervously.

 

“Don't think that doesn't apply to you two as well,” Conrí shot at the pair of women, hearing their restrained chuckling.

 

The women forced themselves to stop giggling. “Yes, Commander,” Xolana purred affectionately, causing Conrí to roll his eyes again.

 

* * *

 

The night before Conrí estimated they’d be returning to Redcliffe village, the party stopped at an inn near the border of the Arling. After the extreme comforts of Orzammar, the bedrolls and tents seemed more uncomfortable then they remembered, so when they stumbled on the roadside tavern, the group, bar Shayle and Sten who truly didn’t seem to care where they stayed the night, were relieved to say the least. 

 

After everyone had settled into their rooms, Conrí approached Xolana at the tavern downstairs and pulled gently on her earlobe to get her attention. Xolana turned her head, surprised. “Awfully gentle today, Commander?”  

 

“I think it’s time we talked,” said Conrí.

 

Xolana’s face quickly turned to suspicion. “Wait a second — whatever you think I did, it wasn't me.”

 

Conrí raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing,” Xolana protested. “And yet people always seem to try and shove blame my way. What is this about exactly, anyway?”

 

“Sounds like someone has a guilty conscience,” Conrí chuckled. “Though that isn't what we need to talk about. Leliana's got us a table away from prying ears.”

 

Xolana raised an eyebrow herself but slowly stood to follow. “Ok?” she began, dubious expression firmly set in her features. “Seriously, Conrí, what's going on?”

 

“You remember the talk we had in Redcliffe before we left for Orzammar?” Conrí asked quietly. 

 

Xolana looked around discretely as the pair walked and then nodded. “I do,” she said a bit warily. 

 

“Since we actually have time to talk about it at length...” Conrí scratched his beard as he contemplated briefly on how to word what came next. “It may be a good idea to do so before returning to Redcliffe.”

 

“Conrí, I...” Xolana fell silent again, shaking her head. “Actually, let's sit down with Leli as you originally suggested.”

 

Conrí lead them over to a small table near enough to the fire to feel the warmth, but far enough from the bar to avoid eavesdropping. Leliana smiled warmly at the pair as they approached. “I ordered a few mugs of ale.”

 

“Trying to get me drunk already?” Xolana asked in good humor.

 

“Not at the moment,” the bard giggled and pushed a mug towards Xolana. The mage sat down and took the tankard between her hands but just held it for the moment whilst looking between Conrí and Leli curiously. “So, you wanted to talk. I'll let you guys tell me what exactly was on your mind first, then?”

 

“We wanted to talk about you and us,” Leliana explained. “It would be obvious to almost anyone there is an attraction and affection between the three of us.”

 

“Well yes, but from what I understood, what the others would think was a problem for you both,” Xolana pointed out.

 

“It may be annoying,” Conrí allowed. “But if annoying would stop me, I would have listened to everything Alistair and Wynne said.”

 

Xolana chuckled, still playing with the mug. “I suppose that's true,” the mage looked between the two across from her with curiosity now. “So. I'm sure you know very well, if you two ask me to bed, I won't say no. Is that what this is about?”

 

“Well, if that was the only reason, we would have just asked,” Conrí admitted. 

 

“Commander,” Xolana chuckled. “I am shocked and scandalized. You can't possibly be suggesting what I think you're suggesting.”

 

Conrí sat back in his chair, a rumbling chuckle echoing in his chest. “And if we are?”

 

Xolana raised a curious eyebrow and finally drank a sip of her ale. “Well it's certainly... unusual. I'm still not sure I believe you're quite serious.”

 

“Xolana, if this was just about sex, why would we, of all people, not come out and say it?” Leliana asked with some exasperation.

 

“Ah, but it's not that my lovely Leliana. I am certain you would have no problems asking for what you wanted,” Xolana smirked and took another small sip. “No it's just that — I suppose I am surprised you're even suggesting it. Given how unusual the situation is and, well, I suppose I saw you both as very exclusive.”

 

“Ordinarily, you'd be right,” Leliana nodded. “Anyone else, and we probably wouldn't be having this conversation. The unique circumstance here is you.”

 

Xolana looked up very curiously now. “I would joke and say I'm flattered now, but... You have me at a disadvantage. Could you explain?”

 

“We understand the situation would be unusual, to say the least. But if you're willing...” Conrí left his statement hang.

 

The dusky mage looked between the both of them a couple of times to verify that she really was hearing correctly “You are both completely serious?” she asked. “You're actually asking me for—” she sighed and decided not to dance around the subject anymore. “A relationship? Between the three of us?”

 

Conrí sent a smug smirk at Leliana. “She finally said it,” he said and turned back to Xolana. “Yes. We're very serious.” 

 

The mage stared, gob smacked, for a few moments before looking down into her mug for a second or two, as if contemplating. After a moment, she took a deep sip, mumbling into her ale. “Did you say something?” Conrí prompted, taking a sip from his own tankard.

 

Xolana put the mug down and just laughed as all other reactions failed her. “I was just trying to express that this may well end up going down as the stupidest thing we've ever done,” her tone turned melodramatic and theatrical. “Look at the brave, heroic Wardens go! They march forth to slay the Archdemon against all odds! Oh, and while they're at it, let's not forget the Void-forsaken relationship drama they manage to stumble into.”

 

“I think getting bitten by a werewolf might top that, honestly,” Conrí snickered.

 

“...occupational hazard?” Xolana tried weakly.

 

“Had I been bitten by a genlock, then yes, we could write it off as that,” Conrí rolled his eyes.

 

“Or perhaps dragging the group to Denerim into a trap laid by my old bardmaster,” Leliana droned, mischievous amusement flickering in her crystal blue eyes. 

 

Xolana groaned exaggeratedly. “Alright, so we've done a lot of stupid things so far and I'm sure there will be more to come yet, but even so,” she looked back up at the two of them, a smile coming over her face. “Let's do it. Let's be stupid. And I guess... we can figure out the details as we go along, yes?”

 

“That sounds like a plan I can support,” Leliana smiled sweetly. “And before I forget,” the lean redhead got up and moved around the table. “I believe I owe you this,” with no more prompting, Leliana leaned down and kissed Xolana.

 

Xolana, taken off guard by the action, stiffened a tiny bit in at first and looked over to Conrí to gauge his reaction, though not really bothering to break the contact with Leliana to do so. When she realized that he truly didn't seem to mind, Xolana pulled Leliana up against her and returned the kiss. “Heh, I guess I really was missing out,” the mage said, with a cheeky grin when they eventually broke apart for air.

Leliana poked the mage’s flushed face with a playful scowl. “That cheek of yours may just earn you a spanking, Xolana.”

 

Xolana caught Leliana’s fingertip in her lips with a smirk. “I'm scared,” she snickered.

 

“You're going to be trouble,” Leliana giggled. “Why don't you go say hello to Conrí. He has been rather patient with us.”

 

Xolana nodded, smirk still firmly in place. “You're right, he has,” she looked over to Conrí and detached herself from Leliana enough to face him instead. After a moment she stood up and straddled his lap. “Commander,” she intoned with mock respect, grinning broadly before kissed him. Conrí chuckled in his throat again before grabbing Xolana's waist and pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.

 

Xolana mewled quietly into the kiss and tilted her head slightly, allowing better access. After just a few moments, she pulled away enough to reach for Leliana and pull her closer as well, dropping a few pecks and nips on her neck, then on Conrí’s. Leliana nuzzled Xolana's ear. “I hate to be the voice of reason, but perhaps we should take this somewhere else.”

 

Xolana forced herself to pull away and nodded. “You're right.”

 

Conrí stood up, sliding Xolana off his lap, and gestured to the stairs. “Come on. Before the others catch on.”

 

Xolana grinned. “Go on ahead and I'll follow when it's clear.” Leliana moved up the stairs quickly and quietly, stifling giggles. Conrí followed as softly as his frame would allow. Xolana waited for a while until it seemed safe and then went up the stairs herself, making a show of yawning when she got the feeling that someone may have seen her.

 

When she entered the room the pair had taken for themselves, she found Leliana straddling Conrí’s waist as he lay on the bed, kissing him deeply and running her hands over his bare chest. All the while his hands were pushing her shirt up slightly and massaging her belly. They both looked up as Xolana entered the room.

  
“Took you long enough,” Conrí chuckled. 

 

“It's called being careful you great old brute,” Xolana shot back as she approached, biting her lip at the scene.

 

Leliana smiled and beckoned the mage closer. “Come here.”

 

Xolana obeyed, kneeling on the bed as well and capturing Leliana's mouth in a searing kiss.

 

* * *

  


The group’s return to Redcliffe was greeted with much fanfare, with many of the inhabitants asking for news from Orzammar, either because of trade deals with the dwarves or news on the proposed alliance. After nearly an hour, the group managed to make their way to the castle. Teagan greeted them at the portcullis, shaking the Warden’s hands enthusiastically. He led them eagerly to the throne room where Eamon was waiting. 

 

After a brief celebration, Eamon decided to get to business. “I understand you have gathered all the allies you could,” he said. “I would prefer not giving Loghain time to consider, but it is up to you. I do not wish to go to Denerim unless you are with me.”

 

Before Conrí could reply, Erin stepped to his side and whispered quickly into his ear. Conrí frowned slightly, though it seemed a weary frown rather than outright displeased or troubled. “Aye. It will give the dwarves time to gather here as well,” he said quietly. He turned back to Eamon. “There is one thing remaining before we can attend the Landsmeet, Eamon. And I’m afraid it cannot be delayed.”

 

Eamon frowned. “We have little time to waste, Warden Commander. The Landsmeet may well decide the future of this country. What is so important you’d put it off?”

 

“There is one more ghost in our past that must be laid to rest,” Conrí rumbled as he gazed at his Warden-pendant, half enclosed in his hand. His eyes were firmly on the crystal stained with darkspawn blood, but his mind had ventured to the past.

  


** *~*~*~*~* **

 

_ Several weeks earlier — on the road from Denerim to Haven _

 

It was clear the escaped prisoner did not have long to live; the marks of torture and severe imprisonment were obvious under the thin, ragged clothing the man had managed to acquire to cover himself. Bann Loren’s men had inflicted several deep wounds, any one of which would prove to be mortal. Conrí looked to the mages, but they all shook their heads.

 

“There’s not much I can do, save ease his pain,” Wynne replied sadly, before all of them started with shock as the man slowly and uneasily pulled himself into a sitting position.

 

“Doesn’t matter, good mistress. I’ll be gone soon, and after all I’ve been through, I’ll be glad of it. Still, I thank you for your aid; I hadn’t expected the Bann’s men to notice my escape so quickly. I suppose I should have been quieter about it, but I had to find you Wardens. But once they got wind that someone was asking too many questions, they came for me. I tried to hide, to get away, but there wasn’t time… and now, I’m a dead man.”

 

“Wasn’t time?” Conrí asked, curious at the man’s choice of words.

 

“You were at Ostagar. For me, it was this, or die in some darkspawn’s belly, or be hung as a deserter. My name’s Elric. I served with King Cailan; he was my friend, you understand?” Conrí nodded, now remembering this man. He rarely left Cailan’s side. “I fled the battlefield when Loghain betrayed us. I abandoned my men and they died… Maker, all that time in Bann Loren’s prison, and all I could think of was what they suffered on that dark night at Ostagar...”

 

“We don’t always get to choose our deaths,” Conrí muttered sadly.

 

“No, but they say the Maker has things happen for a purpose. If it’s you who sees me to my rest, maybe things do happen for a reason. Listen carefully; the king entrusted me with the key to the chest where he kept his most important possessions, items vital to the morale, stability and security of Ferelden. If anything happened to him, Cailan said it was vital I give the key, the chest and its contents to the Wardens,” Elric concluded.

 

“If he wanted the Grey Wardens to have it, why didn’t he simply give the key to Duncan?” Erin asked, kneeling next to her brother.

 

“He never got the chance; Duncan was so busy dealing with you and the other new recruits and keeping Loghain off his back. And considering the tensions regarding Loghain and the Grey Wardens, maybe Cailan felt openly doing so would only create more friction. Still, whatever his reasons, I’m the one Cailan entrusted it to.”

 

“What’s in this chest that’s so important?” Serena asked.

 

“I know that’s where Cailan kept his father’s sword; the one he always swore he’d slay the Archdemon with,” Alistair explained, and Conrí couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the possibilities. The sword of Maric; a great heirloom and symbol of the royal house of Ferelden. If they could recover it — to see such a powerful weapon recaptured would bring a powerful boost to morale.

 

“The sword was not all; the chest was also where Cailan kept the documents with which he was planning an alliance between Ferelden and Orlais against the Blight,” Elric added and Conrí felt a great surge of intrigue. He remembered hearing rumors of the alliance Cailan had been planning at Ostagar, but to know it was confirmed—

 

Could that have been the reason for Loghain’s treachery? he wondered. Or is there more to this than we know? 

 

The urge to learn more suddenly struck him; it felt like a good idea that they learn what was contained within that chest.

 

“Do you still have this key?” he asked, extending a hand.

 

At this, Elric gave a wry smile and chuckled softly, which swiftly turned into a choking cough. “The Maker works in mysterious ways, eh? I suppose it’s for the best, though; if I had kept it, it’d be in Bann Loren’s or more likely Loghain’s hands by now!”

 

“What?” Wynne barked, affronted. “You said Cailan entrusted it to you! How could you fail your duty?”

 

“I feared I’d lose it on the battlefield, so I stashed it in a little hiding place of mine in the royal encampment; in the rubble at the base of a statue by the Circle’s encampment. It’s probably still there.”

 

“You don’t think the darkspawn might have found it?” Garik asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I hope not!” Elric gasped, a look of horror crossing his features. “Maker’s breath, would they even know what to do with it if they had?”

 

“The darkspawn are far more cunning than we give them credit for, but if Cailan trusted that lock with his secrets, I’d wager the contents of that chest are still intact,” Wynne replied thoughtfully. 

 

Elric let out a breath of relief, and then winced as a fresh wave of pain shot through his body. Anyone could tell he didn’t have long left. “Please Wardens. I know that after what happened there, it is probably the last place you would wish to return to, but please, go back to Ostagar. It is vital that the king’s documents do not fall into the wrong hands; the damage a lesser noble could do with them! To say nothing of someone like Loghain; it would be unimaginable!” 

 

Conrí had to agree — if Cailan’s intended alliance with Orlais became common knowledge, it would tear the country apart. Half of Ferelden would view Cailan’s intentions as a betrayal of everything his father had fought for, while the others would see Loghain’s actions as a deliberate effort to destroy any chance at peaceful reconciliation between the two nations.

 

“As for Maric’s sword, it is too powerful to be left to be pawed over by those monsters; same goes for the king’s other arms and his armor. And,” at this, Elric’s voice became a desperate gasp, as if he knew the end was almost upon him and he had to finish before it claimed him. “As my last request, if you happen to find Cailan’s body, see it off. No matter what people say of him, he was still our king, and a good man. He does not deserve to be left to rot amidst the darkspawn’s filth.”

 

Elric’s eyes rolled up in his head shortly after, and his last breath escaped his lips. Conrí reached out gently and closed the poor sod’s eyes. “Maker guide you to your rest, Elric,” Conrí intoned solemnly. As he pulled back from the body, Xolana snapped her fingers, and fire erupted around the corpse. It wasn’t much of a funeral, but considering how pressed they were for time, it was the best that could be done.

 

“Once the business in Redcliffe is taken care of, we head for Ostagar,” Conrí ordered. “Elric is right. We can’t let the darkspawn get their hands on that sword, and no one should see Cailan’s personal messages.”

 

“You’ll be taking me along, won’t you?” Alistair asked. Conrí nodded, knowing full well that night was as much a thorn in Alistair’s side as his own. “Good. Call me sentimental but I left behind some darkspawn that really deserve a sword through the middle.”

 

“The events of Ostagar still haunt my thoughts, Conrí,” said Wynne. “If that is where we are headed, I would like to accompany you as well.”

  


** *~*~*~*~* **

 

_ Present day _

 

“I swore an oath that day,” Conrí rumbled. “Alistair,” he added. The former templar looked up from his own pendant. “Gather the others. Let them know. At daybreak, we march for Ostagar.”

 

* * *

 

“Something about returning here makes me feel old, Wynne,” Alistair mumbled, as he drew his blade from the corpse of a hurlock. The group stood in the snow filled remains of where the war council had taken place prior to the battle. The two and a half day march had been done in almost complete silence, save for the occasional neigh or grunt from Bodahn’s horses. Shayle, Sten and Morrigan had stayed behind, either to look out for the Warden’s allies or, in the witch’s case, to avoid being within a league of her ‘mother.’

 

“And what exactly are you implying, Alistair?” Wynne questioned with an arched eyebrow.

 

“What?” Alistair blinked. “Nothing! I just thought...”

 

“You just thought I might be an expert at feeling old and could share some sage advice?” Wynne shot, though amusement flickered in her eyes.

 

“I just mean that I was a different person then,” Alistair grunted, realizing he’d been had. “I believed in him, you know? That it would be a glorious battle; that we'd win...”

 

Wynne nodded sadly. “I did, too,” the elder mage agreed. “We were all a little bit younger the last time we were here.”

 

Alistair’s lips quirked slightly at the corners. “Well, not you. You've always been old.”

 

“With lip like that, son, you'll be lucky if you live to be half my age,” Wynne grumped.

 

Conrí ignored the mage and former templar and made his way over to the upended table in the back of the hall. With a grunt, he righted it, letting the thick oak legs slam into the dirt. He bowed his head placing his hands on the weathered wood as his mind traveled back to the night before the battle. 

 

Everything had seemed to be planned perfectly. They would buy enough time to put the treaties to use and force the Archdemon to show itself. Duncan or one of the other Senior Wardens would have made the final blow as was tradition, and they would ride out the Thaw as only Fereldans could. 

 

But that wasn’t what happened. Their calls were met with silence. The signal had gone ignored, and the army was butchered. Duncan, the other Wardens, Cailan — all dead. Abandoned by a man who apparently fancied himself king. A man who let the monster who’d slaughtered most of his family not only walk free, but flourish. 

 

His gauntleted fists clenched and with a roar like a wounded bear, Conrí reared back and slammed his fists into the table. The wood gave a splintery protest as it snapped in half. Conrí’s companion’s jumped at the unusual display of unbridled rage. Even when using Oghren’s training, he had never lost his temper this badly. He seemed to be intent on destroying anything he could lay his hands on, be it from the war meeting or what the darkspawn had built. It wasn’t a quiet rage either, as was the norm for Conrí. No, the De Facto Warden Commander was swearing, near foaming at the mouth as he tore through the ruins. Leliana moved to step forward but was stopped by Oghren. “Not a good idea right now, Leliana,” he said, his voice unnaturally soft. “He needs to get this out. He’s been slowly letting the rage out during battle, but it’s been building up for a long time. Despite him taking a step back when it came to politics and what not, I'd imagine everything sat on that boy’s shoulders since the last time he was here. Am I wrong?”

 

Leliana shook her head as her tearful eyes turned back to her Warden, who had just snapped what was left of a tall candelabra against the stone pillar of a the ruined fortress. Then, to their alarm, he reared back again and punch a large piece of stone loose from said pillar. Ignoring the no doubt throbbing pain in his fist, Conrí seized the only flag left in the war room. Before he could throw it away, his blazing eyes found the faded Heraldry. The damaged flag bore the rampant mabari of the royal family. For several tense moments, Conrí stared at the design. Then, his fist clenched around the shaft of the flag and his teeth gritted before he drove the flag into the earth beneath him, the spike going deep into the soil. 

 

He soon moved slowly around the flag to stare at his companions, his eyes, normally unreadable, now filled with the anger, frustration and pain he had been suppressing for months. “We have work to finish,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

 

Leliana grabbed Conrí’s shoulder when she noticed blood dripping from his fingertips. “We'll talk after. Xolana, if you wouldn't mind.”

 

Xolana approached slowly with a nod to Leliana, but looked to Conrí for permission to touch him first before she carefully went about looking after him. Conrí gave no resistance to Xolana’s treatments. The mage eventually sighed and gave Leliana another nod once she'd looked after the worst of the damage. Wynne would have been the better healer, but who could know if the still raging Commander would have let her approach? Conrí eventually returned the nod and offered the dark-haired woman an almost nonexistent smile before squeezing Leliana's hand and moving off.

 

The group continued on, searching for anything they could find once the worst of Conrí’s rage had passed. After dispatching a group of hurlocks Alistair kneeled in the snow and plucked something from the belt of one; a filthy golden gauntlet in his hand. Part of Cailan’s glorious, golden armor.  


“What's the matter, Alistair?” Wynne asked.  


“I don't know,” Alistair muttered bitterly. “It just feels wrong to find this here, pawed over by darkspawn and thick with their rot. It was his.”

 

“I know,” Wynne nodded. “I feel it too. But he is not the first king to ever fall in battle, or even the first to fall to the darkspawn.”

 

“Yes but this wound cuts deeper,” Alistair growled, brushing the filth off as best he could.

 

“And it will bleed longer,” Wynne agreed. “But we must keep moving; no doubt the darkspawn are eager to give us plenty more reasons to mourn.”

 

They quickly found the statue Elric had indicated, breathing a sigh of relief to find a fine, if weathered, brass key. It seemed even the intelligent darkspawn hadn’t thought to sift through the rubble very thoroughly, 

 

The Wardens’ group ran across several bands of darkspawn as they moved through the remains of the army camp. Blair stopped and kneeled next to what appeared to be the remains of an elven messenger. A finely made sword lay in his skeletal hand, coated in dried blood. It seemed the poor lad had never found Ser Garland. “Pick…” Blair breathed. “I’m sorry my friend.”

 

Conrí shook his head from next to the remains of Cailan’s bodyguard. “Poor bastard…” he stood up and made his way into the destroyed tent. He quickly unlocked the chest hidden under the remains of Cailan’s cot. Finding several scrolls, he handed one to Alistair who had followed him in and opened another. A frown creased Conrí’s brow as he read, but Alistair’s seemed much more pleasant.

 

“So it's true! Cailan had convinced the forces of Orlais to ally against the darkspawn!” he cried, his eyes darting over the script.

 

“Empress Celene was merely awaiting his response!” Wynne gaped as she read over Alistair’s shoulder.

 

“A response that never came and now never will, thanks to Loghain's treachery,” Alistair spat, his teeth gritting.

 

“Never is a long time, Alistair,” Wynne advised. “Give it time and let cooler heads prevail. There will be peace between us yet.”

 

“Well I hope you live to see it, Wynne,” Alistair muttered.

 

“And I hope the darkspawn don't,” Wynne agreed.  


Having found a number of pieces of Cailan’s armor, the group decided to find the rest, agreeing to search the tower of Ishal. To say “agreed,” though was in fact a bit generous. Erin and those who’d been sent there were understandably reluctant. At the bridge, however, the group found something they had dreaded seeing. 

 

Cailan. 

 

It seemed the darkspawn had decided to hang the unfortunate man from a crude, wooden construct.

 

Conrí came to the grisly spectacle that the darkspawn had made of his old friend. After gazing at Cailan's crucified remains, Conrí stabbed his blade into the stone and took a knee, head bowed, hand still wrapped around the hilt. “I'm so sorry, old friend.”

 

“Conrí, be careful,” Xolana muttered, voice uncertain. “The king is in far too good a condition after all this time — something isn't right here.”

 

Conrí’s eyes flashed in a white haze. He grunted and turned towards a genlock on the far end of the bridge. “I think we found what, already.”

 

“Darkspawn; it seems even more have not left the site of their victory,” Xolana growled. The genlock chuckled vilely and began casting. After a crude gesture, the magic spread out, and several skeletons began rising from the snow around the darkspawn. 

 

“I think we found our necromancer,” Conrí rumbled pulling his blade from the stone. 

 

* * *

 

“How did I know we’d end up back here?” Erin muttered in an irritable voice. High above, the Tower of Ishal rose above them, its walls gleaming brightly in the watery light of the winter sun, despite the damage done to the towering structure by the darkspawn. The necromancer had fled inside, darting in through the doors as the group were held by a mob of shrieks that had emerged to defend it.

 

“There is a certain sense of inevitability to it,” Blair agreed, their eyes meeting for a long moment. This was where it had truly begun. Though they had first met days before the battle, it had been during the desperate race against time to reach the beacon at the tower’s summit, a ‘safe’ assignment turned into a desperate fight for their lives, that the bonds that held them together now had first been forged in blood, fear and fire. Two frightened recruits had stood before these doors nearly five months ago; two seasoned Grey Wardens approached them with grim determination now.

 

Alistair cast a glance over his shoulder at the sun, which had reached its zenith, and would soon be making its descent. “We must be swift.”

 

“Why, were you planning on sightseeing while we’re here?”

 

“Not bloody likely,” Alistair muttered at Erin’s quip as they started inside the great doors. Inside, the tower was much the same as it had been the last; crawling with darkspawn like an overturned wasp’s nest, genlocks and hurlocks emerging from the same chambers as before, necessitating the companions to fight all through the first floor of the tower until they reached the stairway leading up to the next floor. Beside them lay a gaping hole in the ground that had not been there the first time.

 

“That must be how they got in here that night, how they managed to ambush us up above.” Alistair muttered.

 

“Up or down?” Sten questioned. Erin tried to open the door forward, only to find it resisted all attempts to open it, even when she tried forcing it with her shoulder. “Blocked from the other side”

 

“Down the hole and into the deeps then,” Alistair griped. “I don’t want to even imagine where this goes.” 

 

There was no other alternative; the taint below their skin clearly indicated the darkspawn had fled below, and in any case, even if the way were open up, Erin wasn’t sure she’d wish to ascend to the tower’s summit, to see the bodies of Tobias, Mathis and all the others who died that night trying to defend or reach the beacon, nor to be reminded of how close she and the others had come to dying up there, their bodies left to rot or be picked over by the darkspawn, forgotten and forever lost.

 

* * *

 

The Genlock Necromancer had made its way down to the battlefield where the horde met Cailan's army. The group skidded to a stop, seeing the damn creature had risen the ogre that killed Cailan along with several Warden corpses. Conrí’s eyes flashed as he saw the drones dressed in their battered Warden armor. “Alistair, you handle our—” Conrí’s voice broke briefly, then became an angry growl. “Former comrades. I'll take Big Ugly over there. The rest of you, take care of that damn genlock and whatever else it summons.” 

 

Erin nodded grimly and twirled her swords as she fought her way across to get to the necromancer. The others followed quickly, their faces set in grim masks. Conrí strode through the snow to the slightly paler than normal Ogre with a pair of daggers sticking out of its chest. “ You killed my friend, you ugly bastard. When I’m done carving you up, your master is next.”

 

With a roar, the berserk rage took hold and Conrí lost himself in the red haze of battle. The blade in his hand moved in a deadly dance, drawing blood and pained yells from the undead beast. Instinct told Conrí when to duck and weave, not conscious thought. At that moment, he wasn’t Warden Commander or Lieutenant. He wasn’t the second son of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. He was just a man fighting to sate his bloodlust and avenge his fallen friends.

 

He only came back to himself when he felt his blade pierce the bony crest on the ogre’s head. He wrenched the blade free from the ogre’s skull, not noticing Xolana took the head off the necromancer. Alistair relaxed as the controlled corpses crumpled to the ground. “Ew,” Xolana wiped the blood off her blades on the necromancers own clothes so she didn't sully herself further. Conrí sat down heavily in the snow, not far from the fallen ogre, sword still streaked in darkspawn blood. Xolana looked off towards him. “Looks like Conrí finished off the ogre. Come on everyone, we should rejoin the Commander.”

 

Conrí remained silent as the group approached, only speaking when the group was close enough. “I take it, since this giant bastard isn't getting up again, the emissary is dead?”

 

“I assure you he's not getting up again,” Xolana promised. Oghren was about to make some really inappropriate comment about how Xolana had stuck the bastard like a pig but was shut up by a stern glance from the mage.

 

Conrí used some of the snow to clean off his blade before standing and wrenching Duncan's daggers from the slain ogre's chest. “Did you get Cailan's helm?” Conrí asked.

 

Xolana nodded to Alistair to give it to Conrí. “There it is, the last of them,” the former templar muttered.

 

Wynne sighed. “It has been a long day,” she mumbled. “By the lines around your eyes I dare say you two look as old as I.”

  


“And if I may say so, milady, you appear to be getting younger by the day,” Alistair chuckled.

 

“Be careful who you flirt with, young man,” Wynne laughed. “When you wake up beside me tomorrow morning I'll be back to reminding you of your grandmother.”

 

“Beside you?” Alistair blanched.

 

“You heard what I said,” Wynne grinned evily. “It would not be the first time I woke to a younger man in my bed.”

 

“Are all women this evil and conniving when they grow old?” Alistair sulked.

 

“Just me, my dear,” Wynne chuckled. “Just me.”

 

“Come. We'd better find Cailan,” Conrí sighed. “The sooner we see him off, the sooner we can put this place behind us, where it belongs.”

 

Leliana put a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “Conrí, do not hold your grief in. You lost many friends here that night. Alistair and Wynne did as well.”

 

Conrí was silent for a few long moments and when he spoke his voice was quiet. “I can't let my grief overwhelm me here, Leli. My grief can wait at least until we're safely back at camp.”

 

Leliana nodded and took his hand, ignoring the snow still clinging to his gauntlet. “We're with you, Commander,” Xolana agreed. “Let's go offer the king his final rites.”

 

When the group returned to the king, Conrí’s orders lacked the usual bark. “Alistair, take Erin and Tira and find enough wood to make a pyre. I’ll — I’ll get His Majesty down.”

 

“Conrí do, you want some help?” Xolana asked from her place next to Leliana. 

 

Conrí shook his head. “I—I can handle this. Could you see if you can find any oil or something flammable?” Xolana was about to mention that they had magic fire, but closed her mouth as the thought struck that there was likely a reason Conrí was forgoing that. Intead, she just nodded. Conrí climbed the structure the darkspawn had nailed Cailan to and began wrenching the spikes from the king's body. After returning to the group, he built a pyre with the wood Alistair, Erin and Tira brought back before placing Cailan on top. He doused the wood and Cailan in the oil. “Xolana, if you don't mind. Just... get it going.”

 

The mage nodded and added just a spark of energy to start the fire, no more. Erin stood next to her brother and leaned against him. Conrí put his arm around her shoulders. After several long minutes of watching the pyre, he broke the silence. 

 

“He was dying you know,” he finally said. Alistair looked up from the fire. “Cailan. He was dying. Healers said he had maybe a year. It was a wasting sickness. Eventually, he wouldn't have been able to get out of bed. He told me after the war council. Cailan had no intention of surviving this war.”

 

“But then, that means... It wouldn't have even made a difference,” Alistair mumbled.

 

“If Loghain had charged?” Conrí asked. “No, perhaps not. Cailan wasn't hoping for a battle that the bards would sing of for ages. He was hoping to buy time. To hold the horde back until we could gather our allies. But Loghain's distrust of foreigners and paranoia reared its head at the worst time.”

 

“He wanted to be remembered,” Serena muttered. “To not go under as just another king in the sands of time. But now he will only ever be remembered as the one who lost spectacularly at Ostagar.”

 

Erin shook her head sadly as she looked into the pyre. “Maric didn't leave small shoes to fill.”

 

“I wouldn't fit in ‘em even if he hadn't been such a great man. From what I heard you all say, anyway,” Oghren grumbled. Xolana sent the dwarven berserker a weird look. “I'm trying, okay?!” Oghren trailed off mumble. “Nug-humping...”

 

“Oghren, stop trying,” Serena snarked.

 

“You're making it awkward,” Garik added.

 

“The fire will most likely attract enemies,” Wynne said gently. “It would be best if we did not linger.”

 

“Aye. Pay your last, then we have to be moving,” Conrí agreed. “Wouldn't want Eamon to think he was on his own for once.”

 

Xolana put a careful hand on Conrí’s shoulder on the other side of Leliana. “You ok?”

 

“Not really,” Conrí muttered. “But I will be. Let's go.”

 

Everyone completed their final business at the site in silence, and then gathered together to go. By now the sun had begun to set and Cailan’s pyre had died down to embers.

 

Conrí stood on the bridge, taking one last long look back at Ostagar, urn of Cailan’s ashes in hand. Some things are better left in the past, he thought before turning and following the others, his cloak catching in the wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAND this marks the last chapter that I'm posting in bulk. From here on out, I will be posting chapters in time with Sin, as well as adding his author notes where appropriate and, of course, spending way more time over making sure that the formatting of the chapters is perfect.  
> I really hope you all enjoyed so far, and are with us for the final stretch of Origins... and will perhaps keep following us for Awakening, DAII, Inquisition, and whatever comes beyond.  
> Bear your blade, and raise it high.  
> ~Kitzie


	37. Confronting Legends and the Road to Denerim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, from here on out I'm posting in time with the author, and adding his original author's notes.
> 
> Here's what he had to say:  
> Okay, first off, I'm sorry this took so long to get out and even now it's shorter then normal. There are a few reason this took so long. I got heavy into another fandom in the winter when RWBY Volume 3 came out, so that took over my imagination. And it didn't help i got pretty sick after new year. When i finally got around to doing this chapter, i hit roadblock after roadblock. Writer's block when it came to the Flemeth bit, which i left out for reasons i will explain. Then came the event that stopped me from writing for 3 months solid. In early February, i had this chapter done. Completely. Fight scenes and all. I came back the next day to do some pre beta work and found the file was corrupted and reverted to the variation that came just before the Flemeth Fight. Needless to say, i lost most of my motivation after that. So, again, i'm sorry this took so long to get out to you, but i'm already a good way through planning the next chapter. Hope you enjoy.

The group that went to Ostagar was silent as they returned to camp. Many old wounds had been opened, but now had the chance to heal. Draco had joined them, having found them on their way back. He’d apparently been living in the Korcari Wilds, burning darkspawn whenever he found them.

Alistair was especially quiet, bringing Cailan’s armor to Bodahn to be cleaned of the filth collected over time, from the darkspawn and the elements. The sword and shield on his back were the only things he dared use at the moment.

Wearing armor all day took its toll on the body, not to mention his moment of, well, destruction. He stretched his tired muscles, groaning quietly as he popped a few joints, before allowing himself a few moments to dwell on all he learned that day. He sat down on the bed, resting his head in his hands and rubbing at his temples.

Leliana, who had left him to think in peace and quiet until now, came to sit beside him, gently reassuring in her presence. He opened his eyes to smile wearily at her, a silent thanks, as he noticed Leliana had made an addition to her instrument collection: a wide bodied lute. 

"New lute?" he grumbled tiredly, though intrigued. 

She spied where his eyes had landed. “Yes. While you were gone, I picked that up from a wandering merchant Bodahn was trading with. He wanted a fair price for it, and I couldn’t resist.”

“May I?” Conrí asked.

Leliana shot him a rather dubious look, though her words were gentle. “I didn’t know you were musically inclined, Conrí.”

“My mother insisted I learn something besides a straight flute,” Conrí chuckled grimly as he lifted the instrument into his hands and sat down again. 

He let his hands wander over the wood and strings, a strange expression on his face as he simply studied the instrument. With a sigh, he manoeuvred it into a position in which it could be played, though it took him a few pensive moments to starts experimenting with the strings. Eventually, after a few practice strums to get himself reacquainted with the lute, Conrí began playing a tune familiar to all born in Fereldan.

Leliana smiled as she picked up her straight flute and began to play along. Erin, amidst removing her armor, surprised everyone except Conrí when she began to sing.

_ Land of bear and land of eagle _   
_Land that gave us birth and blessing_   
_Land that called us ever homewards_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

_ We will go home, we will go home _   
_We will go home across the mountains_   
_We will go home, we will go home_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

Tira smiled, enjoying listening to her lover’s voice immensely. Soon, though, the smile faded as the lyrics struck a chord in her heart. Her clan was on the other side of the Waking Sea by now and she had no idea if she would see them again anytime soon. She missed them all. Merrill with her adorable rambling, Hahren Paival’s stories, even Keeper Marethari’s scoldings. Her eyes fell to the last thing she received from her clan, Marethari’s ring.

Blair’s head lowered. Despite the bigotry and scorn, Denerim was her home. Because of Arl Howe’s edicts, she had not been able to visit her family the last time they had journeyed to the capital. She worried greatly for Shianni, and prayed that Soris had managed to keep out of trouble. Most of all, she missed her father. She had barely managed the time to say goodbye. After witnessing so much, her heart ached to see her family.

_ Land of freedom land of heroes _   
_Land that gave us hope and memories_   
_Hear our singing hear our longing_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

_ We will go home, we will go home _   
_We will go home across the mountains_   
_We will go home, we will go home_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

Garik looked towards the sky as he listened to Erin’s enchanting voice. It wasn’t Dust Town he missed. He missed Rica immensely. He missed getting in trouble with Leske. He even missed his drunken, verbally abusive mother. And only the Ancestors knew if he would ever see them again. With Rica taken care of in the Royal Palace, he knew she would be safe, but that didn’t stop him from missing her.

Serena had her head bowed, tears threatening to fall. She missed her father and the former camaraderie she shared with Bhelen. But most of all, she missed Trian. With Bhelen on the throne and her being instrumental in putting him there, her ability to return was all but assured. That didn’t keep her from wishing none of this had ever happened, from her falling out with Trian, to her exile.

_ Land of sun and land of moonlight _   
_Land that gave us joy and sorrow_   
_Land that gave us love and laughter_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

_ We will go home, we will go home _   
_We will go home across the mountains_   
_We will go home, we will go home_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

Tristan’s hands stilled at the edge of his spear, whetstone ceasing its movements. The Circle had been home since he could remember. He could barely even recall his mother’s voice. All he could remember of his home before the Tower was a small house in the Gwaren Alienage. It was not an easy life, but it was his; his own. At least it was, before his magic had manifested.

Xolana sighed and leaned against the tree she sat against, her daggers and polishing cloth forgotten in her lap. Much like Tristan, she recalled little of her life before being taken by the templars. She could conjure the image of a small house on the outskirts of Dragon’s Peak. She remembered the emblem of the Amell family above the door. Her mother had left Kirkwall not long after Leandra, deciding to follow her cousin to Fereldan to live with the man she loved. If Leandra was right, they could still be in Highever. Perhaps she could visit – if she survived the Blight.

_ When the land is there before us _   
_We have gone home across the mountains_   
_We will go home, we will go home_   
_We will go home across the mountains_

_ We will go home, we will go home  
We will go home across the mountains _

Draco sighed as the last lyric left Erin’s throat, Conrí’s fingers stilled on the lute and Leliana’s final note echoed into silence.

“You truly have a very beautiful voice little one. It reminds me of my days spent with Andraste. Her voice was every bit as beautiful as the legends say. Combined with her charisma, and it was enough to move even the hardened heart of a world-weary dragon,” Draco sighed again, lowering his head to rest on his forelegs.

A pregnant silence filled the camp at that, everyone caught up in their own thoughts end memories. Yet, curiosity at the dragon's words eventually overcame the quietude.

"Draco... since you say you travelled with her, you must know a lot about Andraste. Or at least, a lot more than we do now," Xolana ventured, unable to keep her curiosity at bay.

"Yes," Draco agreed with an slight incline of his head. "And you would know more?”

"I... yes I would," the mage insisted. "I would know what she really meant with some of what she said. You could give us the historical context for her words. For example, perhaps you could explain whether she really meant for mages to be locked up, caged like animals... For I somehow doubt it, if she was truly as kind and wise as everyone says."

“What she really meant, you ask? The words were certainly passed down accurately enough. As you seem to have figured out well enough on your own, what frightens me is how her followers have twisted her words to suit their own ends. Caging those who are born with the gift of magic, attacking the Dales is only the beginning of the Chantry's deceit, little one – I’ve little doubt it will shock many of you to learn Andraste herself was a mage.”

“A mage?” Wynne gasped. “But… how… that cannot be…”

Draco snorted, lifting his head once more to glare at the aging woman. “You listen to those whose grandfather’s grandfathers were the distant future of a line, yet you doubt the word of one who was there? Andraste’s followers began to fear another mage would rise up and tear away their power. Yes, magic is dangerous, but ignorance is far more deadly. Mages need training, I have never denied this, but they do not need jailors. What I find most ironic is how Andraste fought a tyrannical empire only for her followers to create an even larger one.”

Leliana wanted to argue, but knew the futility. The ancient dragon had seen tyranny. Perhaps the Chantry was too powerful; at the very least, everyone agreed that things needed to change. Mages were herded into Circles and slain or worse for the slightest of offenses. It wasn’t right. She was free, but Wynne would likely return to the Circle once the Blight was ended. Morrigan would no doubt slip away before the Templars could pen her, while Tristan and Xolana were bound to the life of the Grey Wardens.

“Draco,” the bard spoke after a long moment. “Why are you never mentioned in the Chant of Light?”

“Bah,” Draco huffed. “I imagine I was once, long ago. But the form I have would contradict the Chantry’s ideal of ancient, sentient dragons being evil.” Draco gave an irritated grunt. “I cannot say if Andraste was the Maker’s chosen, but those who followed believed she was.”

Leliana nodded. “You do not believe she was chosen?”

“I cannot say that,” Draco admitted. “For I truly do not know. I’m not even sure if I believe or disbelieve in any higher power. Given my experience, gods are… a fickle lot, to say the least.”

* * *

“Have you lost your mind?!” Alistair nearly shrieked.

Alistair’s sentiment was shared by more than a few of Conrí’s compatriots when he’d revealed why they hadn’t left the Korcari Wilds as of yet. After recovering from their trip to Ostagar, the group was preparing to go deeper into the Wilds.

“Wait, don’t answer that,” Alistair went on, before Conrí could speak. “You want us to fight Flemeth? The Witch straight out of legend? For Morrigan?”

“While I don’t share Alistair’s hysteria,” Serena piped up. “I have to question the wisdom of provoking such a powerful being.”

“As I said,” Conrí growled, tired of repeating himself. “Morrigan believes Flemeth intends to possess her, as she has done for centuries. Perhaps longer.”

“So you’re basing all of this on what that witch told you?!” Alistair demanded.

“If your feet are clay, Alistair, perhaps it is better you remain behind,” Conrí snarled. “You have the option. I told you what I am planning and asked who wished to join myself, Xolana and Surana.”

“This is stupid!” Alistair protested. “Why should any of us risk our necks for her?”

“Because she has been at our sides, risking her neck since the beginning!” Tristan growled.

“Why am I not surprised you’re sticking up for her?!”

“Enough!” Conrí barked. “Alistair, you and I will have words when I return. Anyone with an actual spine made of something besides jelly coming?”

“The two of you aren’t going anywhere without me,” Leliana told Conrí.

“I still think this is nuts, but I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Serena announced, shouldering her axe.

“And I better come to keep the Witch off the Princess’s back,” Garik added.

“You know I’m always down for a tussle, Cousland,” Oghren hiccupped.

“Any chance to squish the head of a witch, I will join in,” Shayle rumbled.

Sten nodded silently.

“With you brother,” Erin told him, adjusting the straps of her sword belt.

“And I’m not letting her go without me,” Tira added.

Conrí nodded. “The rest of you, stay here and watch the camp. We don’t know if Flemeth will send something – or someone – after Morrigan. We will return as soon as we are able.”

Alistair fumed for a long moment. “This is a bloody waste of time. We have bigger things to worry about,” he insisted.

Conrí halted and drew something from his breastplate. It was one of the scrolls from Cailan’s lockbox. “Before you say anything we have done or will do is a waste, read this and realize how much time we wasted on Eamon.” He tossed the scroll at Alistair and continued into the forest.

Alistair grumbled and unwrapped the cord holding the scroll closed and read, recognizing Eamon’s handwriting immediately.

_** Your Majesty, ** _

_** My men will arrive as soon as possible to bolster your forces. Maker willing, this Blight will be ended before it has begun. ** _

_** Cailan, as your uncle, I beseech you not to join the Grey Wardens on the field. You cannot afford to take this risk. Ferelden cannot afford it. Let me remind you again that you do not have an heir. Your death, and it pains me to even think of it, would plunge Ferelden into chaos. ** _

_** And yes, perhaps when this is over, you will allow me to bring up the subject of your heir. While a son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside. We parted harshly the last time I spoke of this, but it has been a full year since then and nothing has changed. ** _

_** Please nephew, consider my words, and Andraste’s grace be with you. ** _

_** Your uncle, and faithful servant, ** _

_** Eamon ** _

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Eamon was trying to convince Cailan to abandon Anora? But… that’s not… shit…”

* * *

Several hours later, the party returned to camp, several limping and all burned to some degree, save Shayle. Of course, stone didn’t burn.

Tristan shuffled over to Morrigan’s fire where she was grinding up herbs. She looked up upon hearing his footsteps, and hurried over when she recognized what he was carrying.

“Mother’s true grimoire?” she said, gingerly lifting up the front cover to open the book as if she couldn’t quite believe it were real.

“Flemeth is dead. I put a sword through her skull myself,” Tristan replied in a flat voice. “What happens now?”

“Now,” Morrigan replied with a devious smile. “I should have time enough to study Mother’s grimoire and learn how to keep her from stealing my body in the future. For she  _will_  be back, one day. I have no doubt about that. And if I cannot find the means to protect myself in here, then when the day comes, I will track her down in whatever new body she inhabits, and she will die, again and again if needs be. If I have to, I will kill her a thousand times and more if it will keep me safe,” she swore with a fervor that unnerved Tristan a little.

Perhaps something of his opinion showed on his face, for Morrigan’s fervor diminished a little. The witch’s expression calmed and she gave him a soft smile. If it weren’t Morrigan, Tristan would have called it grateful as she added, “But enough of such matters. I have you to thank for saving me, so let us return to the matter of dealing with the darkspawn, no?”

“Of course,” Tristan replied, smiling despite himself. “I’m glad to know you’ll be safe, for now at least. But next time you need help, come to me sooner. You can trust me to help.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “You do know you can rely on me?”

For a moment, it seemed to have been the wrong thing to say. Morrigan’s expression became rather wary, her eyes downcast, biting her lip as if uncertain what to say to such a declaration. When she finally did find her voice again, Morrigan spoke in a halting, wary tone.

“You... too much could happen in days to come to make such promises. Still, I am...  _grateful_ ,” she admitted as she seized the two books in her arms and pushed past Tristan towards the tent flap, looking like she wanted to do nothing but get away from him.

“Let us return to the task at hand. There is still much to be done befo-. There is still much to be done,” she corrected herself swiftly, gathering up her things and departing for her tent without another word, leaving for the other side of the camp without a backwards glance, leaving Tristan completely nonplussed at her reaction and her choice of words; not to mention her slip of the tongue. _‘What in the Maker’s name was that all about?’_

_ ‘You’ll learn before long, Morrigan is not what she seems, either. You will see what she wants with you soon enough, boy. You are just a pawn in a game you don’t even know is being played. You will see.’ _

Flemeth’s parting words came to Tristan unbidden, and though he tried to deny it, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was truth to what the old witch said. Morrigan kept more secrets than the lot of them put together, and her reasons for agreeing to follow them against the Blight still remained her own. So if Flemeth were speaking the truth, what did Morrigan want? And what did it have to do with him?

* * *

“Why did you hide this from me?”

Conrí looked up from sharpening his sword next to his tent as Alistair spoke. “Because you were so damned concerned about Loghain, you would have lashed out over anything having to do with your so-called father figure. You need to face the facts that Eamon may not have the best interests of anyone but his own family in mind. And unfortunately, Alistair, you don’t fall into that.”

“He raised me!” Alistair protested.

“You call your childhood being raised?” Conrí asked skeptically. “You said it yourself: you slept in the barn with the mabari. He let his wife walk all over you and treat you like complete trash. And from what you’ve said, he didn’t put up much of fight when Isolde wanted you in the Chantry. And I know why that is. So you wouldn’t be able to challenge Cailan’s rule.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Alistair glared.

“Do you know why my father threw Eamon out the day after Isolde slapped me?” Conrí asked, setting his whetstone and sword down before standing up. “The reason they’d asked to visit wasn’t a trade deal or some such matter that would explain the personal presence of someone of Eamon’s level of influence. No, he was there for two reasons. One, to try and convince my father to annul Fergus’s marriage to Oriana because of her family’s reputation. Two, to convince him to help talk Cailan into putting Anora aside and marrying someone who was from an older, noble family. Because he had no pull with my family, he wanted Fergus married to someone he did have connections with. He had no control over Cailan, so he wanted him married to someone he could manipulate. Eamon’s a meddler. Always has been, always will be. The sooner you accept that, to him, you’re a pawn, the better off you’ll be. I’m no better in his eyes. He’s going to learn the hard way come the Landsmeet that a Cousland doesn’t do well with being manipulated.”

Alistair was silent for a moment. “So what do you suggest? We side with Loghain?”

“No, I suggest we get him on our side. Like I said in Redcliffe, Loghain didn’t lose any men at Ostagar. We will need those men.”

“Are you forgetting what he did at Ostagar?!” Alistair demanded. “He left all of us to die!”

“I will never forget,” Conrí said, his voice low and dangerous. “But what use is a concept like justice when everyone is dead? If we want to stop this Blight before it consumes Fereldan, we need more men. We have to put our personal feelings aside for now, as both Serena and I have when it comes to Bhelen and Howe. I’m no fool, nor am I so pragmatic that I will not see Howe and Loghain pay for what they’ve done. And don’t delude yourself, Alistair. You’re not the only one who’s hero died that night at Ostagar.” With that Conrí strode back towards the fire to take his shift from Tira.

Alistair was befuddled for a moment before it clicked. Like many young boys in Fereldan, Conrí had no doubt grown up on stories of the Occupation and the noble deeds of Maric and Loghain. While much praise was heaped on Maric for ending the war, everyone knew it wouldn’t have been possible without the brilliant tactical mind of Loghain MacTir. From his words, it was clear Conrí idolized Loghain growing up, and the Teyrn’s actions at Ostagar had to be salt in an open wound. Alistair sighed and made for his tent. He had much to think about.

* * *

Tira jolted awake late in the night, trembling. It had been some time since she had a nightmare about the archdemon that had been so… vivid. Beside her, Erin was wiping sweat from her face, looking pale and ill.

“You’re awake!” Erin yelped. “What was that?! It was like the Archdemon saw us!”

“What does that mean?!” Tira demanded. “Wait…” she stilled when she heard a stick snap not far away. Grabbing her bow she bolted out of the tent, most of her armor forgotten. Just as she cleared the flaps, a loud screeching split the quiet air. Scowling, she drew back an arrow and launched into the snarling face of a Shriek. The other Wardens and their companions burst from their tents.

The battle that followed was short but brutal. Conrí came out the worst, with a jagged slash across his bare chest from the Shriek’s barbed forearm blades and multiple lacerations on his hands from when he stuck them in another’s mouth to prevent his throat being ripped out. That particular Shriek paid for its attack when Conrí parted its jaw from its head with his bare hands.

Tira, meanwhile, was helping Shayle drag the corpses of the darkspawn assassins into a pile to be set ablaze. As she tossed a bisected Shriek into the pile, she caught a glimmer in the shadows just outside the light of the campfire. Dropping the corpse, she drew her bow quickly and nocked an arrow. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw what looked like an elf, though its skin was nearly black and its eyes were milky white.

“You! Lethallan!” it croaked as Tira approached, making the Ranger’s blood run cold. Despite the gravely, sickly tone, she recognized that voice.

“Mercy of the gods!” she gasped. “It can’t be!”

“Don’t… don’t come near me!” the tortured creature begged. “Stay away!” Tamlen, or rather what used to be Tamlen, fled towards the treeline.  Tira followed cautiously, waving the others off. “Don’t look at me!” he cried, covering his face with his hands. “I am… sick…”

“Tamlen, please,” Tira whispered. “We can help you.”

“No help,” Tamlen moaned. “No… help for me. The song… in my head. It calls to me. He sings to me! I can’t stop it! Don’t want to hurt you, lethallan. Please. Stop me…”

“Don’t ask that of me,” Tira whimpered. “Please, don’t.”

“I’m so sorry lethallan,” Tamlen mumbled. “Never wanted this.” With a deranged howl, the creature that had once been Tamlen charged Tira.

Before any of the others could interfere, Tamlen slumped to the ground, holding his leg and screaming in pain. Protruding from his thigh was an arrow, another of which Tira drew from her quiver.

With tears in her eyes, the Ranger drew the projectile back. “I’m so sorry, Tamlen…” she whispered as Tamlen got to his knees, his eyes begging for her to end it. “I never wanted it to end this way. Forgive me…” Barely able to look to aim, Tira launched the arrow into the tainted heart of her childhood friend.

Tamlen pitched back, slumping to the ground with a groan of pain, and relief.

Tira fell to her knees, her bow slipping from limp fingers as she broke into sobs. They hitched only once when Erin knelt beside her and placed a hand on the crying elf’s shoulder. With a wounded whimper, Tira threw her arms around Erin’s neck and cried helplessly into her lover’s shoulder. “That was Tamlen, wasn’t it?” Erin asked after a long silence. Tira nodded into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, my love. I know it doesn’t help, but you did him a mercy.”

Tira sniffled. “I wish we’d never found that damned mirror.”

Erin pulled Tira in tighter without saying a word. Conrí walked over to find out what was going on. Taking one look at the ghoul and then at the Dalish elf, understanding flashed through his eyes. “Brother, are you alright?” Erin asked, noticing the wound across his chest still oozing blood.

“I’ll be fine,” Conrí grunted, looking down at the laceration. “It’ll leave a nasty scar, but no more. She needs you more right now. I know the Dalish typically bury their dead but… in his condition, he’d taint the ground. We have to burn him.”

“Don’t – don’t burn him with the shrieks,” Tira mumbled, lifting her head from Erin’s shoulder.

Conrí nodded. “I wasn’t planning to, don’t worry.”

What followed was a pair of pyres and a restless night. Tira watched until her friend was nothing more than cinders and ash, blowing away into the wind. Only when the last of the embers was extinguished did she allow Erin to help her back to the tent for some rest. It was going to be a long day come morning.

* * *

The next morning dawned quiet. Conrí, in lieu of his usual early morning demand for movement, let everyone sleep. They were nearing Soldier’s Peak anyway, not far from where Conrí had requested Eamon and the delegates from the Circle, Orzammar and Dalish to meet, so they would make good time.

The morning was slow, and while Tira appreciated her fellows’ attempts to be sensitive, she’d much rather get on the road and put the previous night behind her. Rather than the spewed platitudes Tira was half expecting when she told Conrí this, she received only a nod and a harsh bark for the others to get moving. Wynne protested throwing a meaningful look at Tira but Erin quickly interceded.

Once all fussing was concluded, the group set off, heading to the north. Tira and Xolana took to scouting ahead for dangers and signs of the army. They eventually found themselves on a hill overlooking a gathering, with one banner in particular catching their eye. The pair looked at each other and sprinted back to the group.

Skidding to a halt in front of Conrí, they paused to catch their breath. “Report?” Conrí asked, mildly amused.

“Eamon and what I assume are a bunch of other nobles are gathered together with the Circle and the Dwarves,” Tira panted. “But I must ask. The wreath. Is it your family crest or the emblem of Highever?”

Conrí’s brow furrowed. “Our family crest. Why?”

“Because one of the banners with Eamon had the laurel wreath,” Xolana told him.

Conrí’s brows shot up. “Show me.”

Quickly retracing their steps, Tira and Xolana led the group back to the hill. Conrí’s eyes widened in disbelief when he saw the mage and ranger were correct, and the Cousland wreath flew proudly with the banners of several other Banns. They made their way swiftly down the hill.  
  
Teagan was the first to notice the new arrivals. With a warm smile, he beckoned the group forward. “Ah, Warden Cousland. It is good to see you. But I daresay one of our number will be even more pleased to see you.” The gathering parted to reveal a man in familiar heavy chain. Conrí’s breath caught in his throat.

“Fergus?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the flames of hate are familiar at this point. XD I've been in the DA fandom too long. I know, I'm a bastard who abuses cliffhangers. But besides that, i hope you liked this shorter then normal chapter. Let me know if you prefer this or the 10k+ chapters.


	38. Reunions and Landsmeet Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now that my unforgivably long Hiatus is over, here's the next chapter, as promised on Fanfic. I'll have a longer AN at the end of the chapter to explain things about the chapter.

“Fergus?” Conrí choked.

Crystal blue eyes widened. “Conrí?” a stubbled faced turned to the figure at Conrí’s side. “Erin? Is that really you?”

“Brother,” Erin hiccupped.

Fergus, whom the twins had almost given up for dead, rushed over to his siblings and pulled them both into a bruising hug. “Blessed Andraste, I never thought I’d see you again,” he breathed. The twins returned the embrace with equal force. After a long moment, the trio separated. “I can scarcely believe you two are here. You’re the Wardens I’ve been hearing so much about? When I heard of Howe’s attack and Loghain’s retreat, I never dreamed…” 

“There is much to tell you, Brother,” Conrí said slightly hoarsely. 

“Indeed,” Fergus nodded. “Once this business with the Landsmeet is concluded, I expect you at my side when we take back our home. I shudder to think what happened to our people while under Howe’s thumb. Mother, Father… Oriana and Oren… I want to be able to give them a decent rite, at least.”

A mischievous notion struck Conrí and he fought to keep a grin from his face. “Before we set off, Fergus, there’s something you need to see.”

Fergus looked puzzled, but nodded. “Very well. I suppose we have time.”

“Not much, but yes, we do,” Conrí assured him. “But I’ve been rude. You’ll no doubt be shocked and appalled, brother, to learn that the number under my command has grown in the past year.”

“Maker help them,” Fergus snarked.

Conrí gave a playful scowl and gestured to the two Dwarves to his left baring the rampant griffon on their wildly different armor. “You’ve met Serena Aeducan and Garik Brosca, albeit briefly.”

“It is an honor once again, my lord,” Serena clapped a fist to her cuirass.

“Glad to see you weren’t ‘spawn chow,” Garik snickered before taking a backhand to the stomach, courtesy of Serena.

Fergus merely smirked. “Yes, their dichotomy certainly left an impression.”

“Now those you haven’t met,” Conrí continued. “Tristan Surana and Xolana Amell, both late of the Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold.”

Fergus cocked his head. “To be truthful, Conrí, they do not resemble any mages I have met.”

This observation earned him a bored eye-roll from the elf, whilst the human mage offered him a toothy grin and a wink.

“They learned ancient techniques in an elvish ruins in the Brecilian Forest while we were assisting Keeper Lanaya’s tribe with a… well, there is no way to say it discretely: a werewolf problem.”

Fergus’s eyebrows shot up. “Mage warriors and werewolves? My, my, brother, you’ve been busy these last months.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Fergus,” Erin sighed. “Before you ask, yes, I am a Grey Warden as well, but Conrí didn’t recruit me, nor did he have a say when I Joined, willingly, I’ll add.”

Fergus sighed. “I should scold you for going against our parents’ wishes, sister, but I believe my words would be hollow. I am just relieved to see you still live.”

Erin nodded, smiling. “This is Tira Mahariel, from the Sabrae Clan.”

“ _Andaran Atishan, Lethallin_ ,” Fergus nodded with a smug grin.

Tira’s eyes widened a fraction and she smiled. “ _Aneth ara_ , Fergus. For one not born among the Dalish, you speak Elvish surprisingly well. Though your use of _Lethallin_ is incorrect.”

Fergus frowned slightly. “I was under the impression _Lethallin_ was Elvish for friend.”

“It is in a sense,” Tira acknowledged. “Though it is closer to ‘cousin’ or ‘clansman’ while we use _Falon_ for friend as a general term. But that wasn’t my point. _Lethallin_ implies you are speaking to a male while you would use _Lethallan_ while addressing a woman.”

“I see,” Fergus nodded before sweeping into an extravagant bow. “Forgive my misspeak, my lady.”

One of Tira’s eyebrows rose slowly. “Is your brother always this charming, _ma vhenan_?”

Erin sighed. “Unfortunately. He seems to have inherited the Cousland charm as he calls it, love.”

Fergus looked gob smacked. “Love?” he seemed to sputter for a moment before his expression shifted to one of an odd amusement mixed with affection. “You always did have a soft spot for elves, sister.”

Rather than getting offended or jealous, Tira leaned into Erin. “A quality I’m rather fond of.”

“Moving on, before our dear sister gets too involved in public displays of affection,” Conrí jibed, studiously ignoring the scowl from his twin. “This is Blair Tabris, late of Denerim. You may have heard of her actions in the Arl’s Palace last year.”

“You’re the one who gutted Vaughn like a fish?” Fergus asked, surprised but not unpleasantly so. Behind him, however, Eamon scowled slightly.

“Yes,” Blair nodded. “And I’d do it again.”

“You’ll find no tears shed from me on his behalf, Lady Tabris,” Fergus assured her.

“Lady?” Blair raised an eyebrow. “Charming as you are, my lord, I’m afraid I’m spoken for.”

“Oh, I don’t know, _amore mio_ ,” Zevran snickered. “Personally, I would not complain if he were to join us.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Zev,” Blair rolled her eyes. “I, however, would be rather uncomfortable sharing a bed with my commander’s sibling.”

“You are no fun, lately,” Zevran pouted.

Fergus shook his head, too used to Antivans from dealings with his wife’s family. Thoughts of Oriana quickly soured his mood.

“Anyway,” Conrí cut it, noting his brother’s change in demeanor. “We have some short business to attend to in the Peak.” He looked over to the group of three acting as Emissaries for the Circle, Dalish and Orzammar. “If you would join my brother and my Wardens, there is much we need to discuss.”

“I shall join you, Commander,” Eamon said moving to accompany Conrí.  
  
“No,” Conrí said bluntly. “Only those whose primary concern is the Blight will join us. Fergus has… a personal reason to enter the Peak. You do not,” Conrí’s voice lowered so only those around him and Eamon could hear. “And frankly, I trust them a great deal more then I trust a man who dared insult and threaten someone who saved his life and his land.” With no more words needed Conrí turned and marched into the cave leading to Soldier’s Peak.

“Was that wise, brother?” Fergus asked as they left from within earshot of Eamon.

“I will not allow Eamon to think he can manipulate me, Fergus,” Conrí said firmly. “Just because we have a common purpose in Denerim, he believes I should follow his lead, and keep my mouth while the ‘adults’ talk.”

“When have you ever kept your mouth shut?” Fergus asked sardonically. 

“Exactly my point, brother,” Conrí snickered darkly. He led the way through the twisting cavern. Once the group found the exit, the bright light of the outside world was fairly uncomfortable.

Fergus’s rubbed his eyes as he had been unfortunate enough to be looking at the back of Conrí’s armor when he stepped into the sun. As he was trying to recover his no doubt permanently damaged sight, he heard something he thought he’d never hear again.

“Uncle!” small voice shouted, followed my scurrying steps through the high mountain snow. Fergus looked up to see Conrí catch and lift a young boy into the air. The brown haired, blue-eyed child was alarmingly taller than the last time Fergus had seen him, and the eldest Cousland was having a hard time believing his eyes. 

Yet, undeniably, the boy before him appeared to be none other but his own son.

“Oren!” Conrí laughed holding his nephew above his head. “Maker’s breath, you’re getting tall!”

Oren nodded proudly. “I’ve been eating my vegetables, just like Momma said!”

“Even if it is a fight to get him to do so,” Oriana chuckled as she joined them.   
  
“Oriana, good to see you’re doing well,” Conrí smiled at his sister-in-law. He brought Oren down to his hip. “I have a surprise for the both of you. Frankly, it’s a surprise for him, too.” Conrí turned, drawing Oriana and Oren’s attention to the figure still in the mouth of the cave, his eyes misted and his jaw slack.

“Fergus!” Oriana breathed even as Oren shouted, “Papa!” the boy elbowing Conrí until his uncle put him down and both mother and son scurried over to the man.

Fergus dropped to his knees to embrace his son and wife. Conrí smiled and turned to leave his sibling to his reunion, beckoning the others to follow.

“Orzammar's finest stand ready, Warden,” said emissary Fellhammer. “Been a while since the dwarven army marched on the surface.”

“You sure you haven't forgotten how?” Conrí asked with a playful smirk.

Fellhammer chuckled. “We'll be fine, provided the ground hasn't forgotten how to shake.”

“You witness the rarest of things, Warden,” Emissary Caron told Conrí. “The Dalish clans amass for battle.”

Fellhammer snorted. “You certain they won't cut and run first chance?” Apparently the stout dwarf was well read on the Second Blight.

“I would not insult them by asking, Son of The Stone,” Caron said a tad shortly. “We have given our word.”

“We’ll see if the descendants’ word is as invaluable as the ancestors’,” Fellhammer rolled his eyes. Well read indeed. 

Caron scowled, but he’d been told the true story of what happened during the second Blight. He couldn’t deny his forbearers’ foolishness when he’d seen what the Blight could do with his own eyes.

“If I might get this back on track,” Conrí said wearily. “There is a reason I refused Eamon and his captain from being here. I do not know how long his loyalty will last after the Landsmeet, so we must make plans. We can’t well march an army across the country and park it outside the capital.”

“No, that’s true,” Fellhammer twirled a braid from his beard between his fingers. “Though I would feel better if at least some of us went with you, Warden. Let the Deshyrs in Denerim know you have the support of Orzammar. And the Dalish, if they feel they can survive being in a city,” he added as a slightly backhanded afterthought.

“Several of us have had dealings with human settlements before, my stout friend,” Caron said evenly.

“Good,” Conrí grunted. “If you have a group of men, say 30 each, who would be willing, I’d be more than happy to take them with us to Denerim.”

“We’ll have them ready in less then an hour,” Fellhammer nodded.

Conrí nodded in return. “Have those staying behind make their way here after we’ve left. Last thing I need is one of Eamon’s men or one of the Chantry’s templars invading this place.”

“It will be done, Warden,” Fellhammer saluted, taking his leave.

Conrí turned to look for Levi, but his eyes fell instead on a familiar, surprising face.

Jowan froze as Conrí’s eyes fell on him. The mage had cleaned himself up nicely, his stubble trimmed and his long hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. He even wore a new set of robes, those of an enchanter and not a mere apprentice. Jowan swallowed hard when Conrí stared at him, a feeling of dread in his stomach. Jowan didn’t know if the Warden Commander knew Xolana and Tristan had helped him escape, or if it was done against his orders. The blood mage gave a meek wave, trying to appear friendly. Conrí raised a brow and beckoned the man over.

With heavy legs, Jowan walked over to Conrí as said tall redhead called over Levi. The seneschal of Soldier’s Peak hurried over. “Good to see you again, Warden.”  
  
“Levi, I wasn’t aware one of your nephews was a mage,” Conrí said lightly. Jowan’s head snapped up. Did he know Xolana and Tristan broke him out? His even tone and relaxed posture lent credence to the idea.

“Andraste’s knickers, that will be the day,” Levi chuckled. “No, no, Warden, this is Levyn, arrived a few months ago before the snows started. Had a note from your fellows… the elven mage and the… one with the purple eyes. Forgive me, names are not my strong suit.”

“Surana and Amell?” Conrí queried. “Ah, yes, now I remember. Said something about sending a healer your way.”

“Good thing, too, since my niece went into labor right after he arrived,” Levi agreed. “I was actually thinking of hiring him on, but I wanted to speak with you about it first. We already have a rate agreed on. All we need is your say so. I know what they say about mages, but if he weren’t here, my niece could have lost the little one, or we could have lost them both. Been right helpful ever since as well, ‘specially when my back decides it’s had enough for the day. So what do you think, Warden?”

Conrí made a show of contemplating it, before nodding. “Aye, I like the idea. Get him on the books, Levi,” he said.

“Right away,” Levi sent a grin towards “Levyn.”

“’Levyn?’” Conrí asked quietly as Levi practically skipped towards the Keep.

Jowan shrugged. “It was my teacher’s name. Ran into some refugees and it was the first thing I could think of,” the inky haired mage scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks for not ratting on me.”

“Well, you’re here because of two of my Wardens. You live because of their word,” Conrí turned back to Jowan, his eyes deadly serious. “Don’t screw it up.”

Jowan swallowed again, but before he could do anything more, he was crushed in a hug by Xolana and had his back bruised by Tristan’s surprisingly enthusiastic thumping.

Conrí made his way over to Mikhael Dryden. “Warden,” the taciturn smith said simply. “I have your blade here.” He reached under the front of his stall and produced Conrí’s Claymore. Conrí took the weapon with a small smile, drawing it. The wrapping on the hilt had been replaced with deep red leather. He frowned when he noticed the blade wasn’t the expected steel, but instead gleaming silverite. “The old steel was good, but I would have had to completely reforge it. I thought you were due for an upgrade anyway, and I had a blank blade of silverite the right length and width. The shape was almost identical as well.”

Conrí nodded. “My thanks, Mikhael. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Mikhael grunted. “Had to do minimal work, and I did owe you a courtesy for helping my family.”

Conrí was silent for a moment. “Thank you, Mikhael. If you ever need anything, you’ve but to ask. 

Mikhael nodded, a small, almost invisible smile on his gruff face.

“Conrí,” Erin trotted up. “Glad I caught you. I’ve given the family sword back to Fergus, and frankly,” she held up her offhand sword. The Red Steel was scratched, pitted and even had a large wedge carved out of it by a nasty blow from a hurlock’s axe. “I could use a replacement anyway.”  
  
“I have a pair of swords here that may be just what you need,” Mikhael told her, reaching behind his stall again and pulling out a pair of silverite longswords, with blue steel cross guards and pommels, and hilts wrapped in deep blue leather. “These were made with your fighting style in mind. Been having trouble selling them since very few in Fereldan use a sword in each hand.”

“These are perfect,” Erin breathed, rolling her wrists to test the weight and balance of the twin blades. They were a bit more slender then the longswords Alistair preferred and a tad shorter as well, but they were much more lively in her hands. She pulled the scabbard from her previous weapon from her back and replaced it with the pair Mikhael had given her. After securing the scabbards to her armor, Erin dug into her coin purse and pulled a handful of gold coins from it, placing them onto the stall.

“Warden,” Mikhael choked as he counted out the coin. “This is more than double what I was planning on charging anyone else.”

“Well, consider it an investment,” Erin chuckled. “Use the money to get some more quality materials. Soldier’s Peak is in a great place along the Imperial Highway. You should be able to get a hold of some good trade.”

Mikhael stroked his beard. “You may have a point. I will look into it.”

“Warden!” Levi came running up again. “Forgive my continued pestering but I plum forgot. A group of people, refugees, I figured, arrived not a month after you departed. Big family, I’d wager. They all have eyes, well, kinda like yours. Relatives?”

Conrí frowned, casting his mind around to anyone he’d meet who had similar eyes as he. His eyes widened when his mind fell on the only people it could be. “Right, the group I ran into in the Brecilian,” Conrí hedged. Technically it wasn’t a lie. “Where are they?”

“Over in the training yard. Mikhael and I kitted them out, said you requested it. Most of them preferred axes and bows to swords,” Levi shrugged. “Not many swordsmen I guess, which figures for people from a small town in the middle of nowhere.”

_Middle of nowhere is right,_ Conrí thought ironically.

He found a large number of the former werewolves sparring in the training yard, just as Levi has said. Conrí searched about and found Swiftrunner – or whatever he’d taken to calling himself – leading the training. He wore simple chainmail and had an axe sheathed at his waist, with a large, round shield on his back. Swiftrunner clapped a fist to his chest and bowed slightly as Conrí approached. “My lord,” he said humbly.  
  
“There’s no need for that…” Conrí began. “I apologize, but I don’t recall your name.”

Swiftrunner looked up, seeing the slightly imploring look in Conrí’s eyes. The former Were grinned slightly. “Dirk Wulff, Warden. I’d be surprised if you did remember. We barely had time to exchange pleasantries before we had to leave. I thank you once again for your help back in the forest. We aim to repay the debt by fighting at your side against the Blight.” 

“Any help is appreciated, Ser Wulff,” Conrí nodded. He frowned slightly. “Wulff… would you happen to be related to Arl Wulff?”

Dirk laughed. “Not to my knowledge. I believe we just have a common name. Happens some times.”

Conrí mentally applauded the man’s quick and plausible denial. “I trust your stay has been bearable, if not entirely comfortable.”

Dirk chuckled. “It has been pleasant having natural barriers as well as a wall around us. Makes for a change from eking out a living in the wilderness. None have gone hungry or fallen ill, so all in all, we have no complaints.”  
  
“I’m glad to hear it,” Conrí smiled. “If there’s anything you need, Levi is fully permitted to help you get it if he has the means.”

“As I said, we have no complaints and want for nothing. It is more then enough that we do not have to worry about beasts sneaking up on us in the night,” Dirk grinned slightly mischievously.

Conrí couldn’t help but chuckle at the former were-beast’s humor even if it was a tad dark. “As you say. I won’t take up anymore of your time. A number of the army is remaining nearby, so if you need any assistance with training you can ask them. Unfortunately, we’re only making a short stop before we continue on to the capital. If all goes well at the Landsmeet, we will meet you back here before the end of the month.”

“We await your order, my lord,” Dirk nodded, saluting and bowing again. Conrí sighed internally and merely returned the nod before rejoining the others.

Less than an hour later, the group departed from Soldier’s peak again. Fergus was standing off to the side with what looked like a group of Chasind hunters, his son still clinging to his belt and his wife on his arm, not wanting to be parted from the man they had feared dead. “Brother,” Fergus beckoned Conrí over. “This is Augur Aslog, the woman who treated my wounds after my party was assaulted before Ostagar. She said she wanted to see you.”

Conrí nodded and approached the woman. She seemed to be in her late fifties, hunched over with long white hair, braided intricately with numerous beads. She leaned heavily on a tall staff decorated with more beads and innumerable feathers and carvings. “Lean down, boy,” she said, her voice croaky and harsh and her accent seemed forced, betraying that Common wasn’t her first language. “The old eyes are not what they used to be.” Conrí found that hard to believe. Her eyes were dark brown, nearly black and showed a sharpness rarely seen in people half her age. But, despite his skepticism, he did as he was bid. Aslog took his chin between her boney finger and thumb and turned his head to the left and right, her fathomless eyes gazing into his. Apparently she liked what she saw as the elderly mage smiled and released Conrí. “Aye, Thane Lone Wolf, your kin has good eyes. Proud and wild, like a feral beast. This is good. You will need a beast to defeat the ones coming north.”

“As I told you, Augur,” Fergus chuckled. “You never could tell my fierce brother a thing. Far too stubborn.”

“That will may well help you carry the day,” Aslog rebutted, pointing her staff reproachfully at Fergus. “Our people will join you when your gathering is complete. We cannot risk our numbers marching on your capital, lest your rulers believe it an invasion.”

“As you wish, Augur,” Fergus nodded. “Be safe.”

“We always are,” Aslog shot back as she and her tribe moved off.

“What was that about?” Conrí asked as the Chasind vanished into the woods. 

“Aslog wanted to be sure you could lead this army,” Fergus told him. “She wouldn’t have agreed to follow if you hadn’t impressed her. If there’s one thing the Chasind respect, it’s strength.”

“I’ll take your word on it, ‘Thane Lone Wolf,’” Conrí chuckled.

“Hey, I earned that name!” Fergus protested.

“Well, Fellhammer?” Conrí asked as they began to march.

“Well, what, Warden?” Fellhammer grunted, squinting at the taller man.

“You said something about making sure the ground remembered how to shake. With our numbers, it may need some encouragement.”

Fellhammer laughed. “As you say Warden,” he raised his voice. “A’right, lads! Let’s show these cloudheads how we shake the ground in Tapsters! _Brothers of the Deep rejoice!_ ”  


_Swing, swing, swing with me!_ The battalion answered

_Raise your axe and raise your voice!_ Garik cried

_Sing, sing, sing with me!_

_Down and down into the deep,_ Serena took over  
_Who knows what we'll find beneath?_  
Genlocks, Ogres, Shrieks and more  
Hidden in the mountain lair.  
  
Born underground, suckled from a teat of stone.  
Raised in the dark, the safety of our mountain home.  
Skin made of iron, steel in our bones,  
To fight and fight makes us free!  
Come on brothers sing with me!  
  
I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War  
Marching off to war, marching off to War  
I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War  
Marching off to war, marching to War!  
  
The sunlight will not reach this low  
Deep, deep in the mine  
Never seen the blue moon glow  
Dwarves won't fly so high  
Fill a glass and down some mead!  
Stuff your bellies at the feast!  
Stumble home and fall asleep  
Dozing in our mountain keep  
  
Born underground, grown inside a rocky womb  
The earth is our cradle; the mountain shall become our tomb  
Face us on the battlefield; you will meet your doom  
We do not fear what lies beneath  
We can never dig too deep

_I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War_  
Marching off to war, marching off to War  
I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War  
Marching off to war, marching to War!

_I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War_  
Marching off to war, marching off to War  
I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War  
Marching off to war, marching to War!

_(Humming)_

_Born underground, suckled from a teat of stone._  
Raised in the dark, the safety of our mountain home.  
Skin made of iron, steel in our bones,  
To fight and fight makes us free!  
Come on brothers sing with me!

_I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War_  
Marching off to war, marching off to War  
I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War  
Marching off to war, marching to War!

_I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War_  
Marching off to war, marching off to War  
I am a dwarf and I'm marching to War  
Marching off to war, marching to War!

* * *

 “They can say what they want about the likes of Val Royeaux, Minrathous and Antiva City,” Conrí said as they rode through the gates into the capital. “As for me, Denerim is the greatest city in Thedas. It is certainly the heart and soul of Ferelden – King Calenhad’s city, Andraste’s birthplace — stubborn as a mabari and just as good to have on your side. If we can defeat Loghain here, then the rest of the nation will follow us.”

“By calling for the Landsmeet, we have dealt the first blow; the advantage is, for the moment, ours,” Fergus went on. “He will have little choice but to show himself, to oppose us directly. He will strike back at us... the only question that remains is, how soon?”

Conrí’s eyes fell on one particular member of the crowd that had gathered to witness the Warden’s entrance to the city. Ser Cauthrien, Loghain’s Lieutenant, stood at the back, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. Conrí sent her a cool glare, which the tall brunette returned and stormed off towards the palace. “Sooner than you think, brother,” Conrí growled as they dismounted outside Eamon’s Denerim home.

The group gathered in the main parlor, finding various places to sit down and relax. “We have a little over a week before the Landsmeet, so get comfortable,” said Conrí as the last of the party filed in. “And by ‘get comfortable’ I don't mean invite some of Sanga's girls over for a party. I'm looking at you, Xolana.”

The mage in question let out an indignant “Hey!” before mumbling and grumbling bitterly. “Seriously, like I was the only pervert around here...”

“You're the only one I have to keep out of trouble,” Conrí told her, amusement flickering in his icy blue eyes.

“Alright, alright... I'll be good,” Xolana mumbled, sticking out her tongue at Conri when he turned to look over to the others. Leliana leant over the back of the couch Xolana was seated on and grabbed her extended tongue. The mage flinched and pouted. “...... owie. Uh gueth uh detherf thad. Can uh hav muh dongue bag?”

“Hm. I don't know; can you behave yourself?” Leliana giggled. Xolana nodded helplessly.

“Now, we both know that is a lie, my dear,” Zevran chuckled. 

Xolana frowned at him when she finally got her tongue back. “Since when can you take the moral high ground?” she demanded.

Alistair let out a sigh of despair. “Oh no, don't let them two get at it again,” he groaned, causing Blair to throw daggers at Alistair with her eyes, making the former Templar yelp and hide behind Shale.

Leliana quieted any reply Xolana would have made with a kiss. Xolana cut off in the middle of starting to throw back a clever retort, quickly sank into the kiss happily, purring as her lips danced with the Bard’s.

“WOO!” Oghren celebrated, throwing his hands drunkenly into the air. “Sloppy makeouts!”

Alistair covered his face. “At least they've shut up I suppose...” he said with the air of a man accepting defeat.

“Thank you, Leliana,” Conrí sighed, grateful Fergus and the others weren’t around to see this. Leliana looked up slightly and winked, never breaking contact with Xolana. Serena grabbed Oghren by the ear and dragged her fellow berserker off, grumbling while Garik trailed behind, snickering. “Get a much rest as you can. We have a long week ahead of us.”

They’d barely been in the building an hour before one of Eamon’s servant’s bolted into the main room. “Warden Cousland!” he panted. “Teyrn Loghain has arrived! He’s asked to see Arl Eamon and you by name!”

Conrí sighed. “I knew it. Go find my brother, and tell him to meet us in the main hall.”

“At once!” the servant sprinted off, heading to the guest quarters.

Conrí, who was preparing to remove his armor, retightened the straps on his cuirass and strode out into the main hall. Eamon and Teagan were already waiting for him and Alistair. “I was hoping we had more time to prepare,” Eamon grumbled.

“It’s a time tested method,” Conrí rumbled. “Hit your enemy before they have time to fortify.”

Before they could continue, the main doors opened and Loghain MacTir strode into the hall, flanked by Ser Cauthrian and a man whose mere presence made Conrí’s blood boil. Rendon Howe stood to Loghain’s left and slightly behind him. So concerned was Conrí with trying to set the traitorous rat aflame with his gaze, he almost missed Eamon speaking.

“Loghain,” he said tightly. “It is… an honor for the Regent to greet me personally.”

“How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Fereldan away from their estates,” Loghain smirked, a cruel humor in his voice. “While a Blight claws at our lands?”

“The Blight is why we are here,” Eamon said sharply. “With Cailan dead, Fereldan must have a king to lead against the Darkspawn.”

“Fereldan has a strong leader,” Loghain snarled. “Its queen, and I lead her armies.”

“Then why is she not here, speaking for herself?” Conrí asked coolly.

“Ah, Warden Cousland,” Loghain turned to the tall youth. “I thought I recognized you. You have my sympathies for the fate of your order. Were it not for Cailan’s stubbornness, there might yet be more of you.”

Conrí’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Your kind words ring a bit hollow, my lord, when you surround yourself with rodents,” he nodded sharply at Howe. “You know as well as I do that man should be on the gallows, not advising the regent.”

“It came to my attention that your father was selling Fereldan military secrets to Orlais, young Warden,” Loghain said gruffly.

Conrí snorted. “And I suppose he told you that?” he asked. “I imagine he spoke of the trade agreement between Jader and Highever. It seems Jader Nobility has a weakness for Highever Whiskey, and we had a surplus two summers ago. Come, Loghain, you’re smarter than this. Howe has been envious of my father since the war. He turned on his own father. What makes you think he wouldn’t betray my father in kind?”

Loghain’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Regardless, your father is not here to dispute the claims. And you do not help your cause by allying with supposed royal bastards.”

“Well, he admitted the royal bit, at least,” Alistair grumbled.

“There is talk among the nobility, Eamon, that your recent illness has left you feeble,” Loghain went on, almost conversationally. “And no longer fit to advise Fereldan.”

“Illness?!” Eamon bristled. “Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and as these… sycophants.”

“How long have you been gone from court? Surely you recognized Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, and Teyrn of Highever,” Loghain pointed to Howe. 

“And the current Arl of Denerim, since Urien and his son were unfortunate victims at Ostagar and their meeting with the that knife-ear in the alienage,” Howe added with a smirk. “The regent has been… generous to those who prove their loyalty.”

“It's amazing what boot-licking can accomplish,” Conrí growled, his face finally abandoning its mask and morphing into a feral snarl. “Especially in claiming lands and titles that do not belong to you. Did you get those other titles honorably, or thorough murder and thievery as you did with my father’s?”

Howe growled as Ser Cauthrien stepped up to his defense, “Don't interrupt, churl. Your betters are talking.”

“I don’t recall speaking to you,” Conrí growled. “If you speak out of turn again, I will consider it a challenge. Last time you and I fought, you came out on top of a 17 year old boy. This time you may not come out unscathed.”

“Enough, Cauthrien, this is not the time or place,” Loghain ordered before turning his attention to the others. “I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened. Our king is dead. Our land is under siege. We must be united now, if we are to endure this crisis. Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Will you see her work destroyed? You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne.”

“Frankly, I care little and less whose arse is on the throne, Loghain,” Conrí barked. “The nation is divided because you decided to usurp power from your daughter. In doing so, you’ve belittled her ability to rule. And your actions since Ostagar haven’t painted you in the best light. The nobles of Fereldan owe no one their allegiance, as you well know. Unfortunately, even with their support, you wouldn’t have enough soldier’s to battle the Blight. The skirmishes you’ve been fighting against the horde? A drop in the ocean compared to what is coming. But it seems my words fall on deaf ears. Very well. We will let the Landsmeet decide.”

“I cannot forgive what you’ve done, Loghain,” Eamon said sadly. “Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline. Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight!”

At this, Alistair gave a soft chuckle. “Oh, is that  _all_  I have to do? No pressure, then!”

Conrí chuckled, but Loghain showed no such amusement as he stormed up to Eamon, stopping when the two men were practically nose-to-nose, and hissed in a deadly voice, “The Emperor of Orlais also didn’t think I could bring him down. Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is  _nothing_  I wouldn’t do for my homeland!”

A door opened behind them as Loghain turned to stride from the hall. “For your information, Loghain,” Conrí called as he realized who had entered. When the Teyrn turned back, glowering, Conrí pointed to the figure in the doorway. “ _That_ is the Teyrn of Highever.” Howe’s face crumpled in hate as he glared at Fergus, who strode forward, his face contorted in a snarl. Conrí held out an arm to stop his brother. “No, Brother. Not now. Rest assured, we will have our due. But a wolf does not follow a rat into its burrow.”

Fergus lessened his weight on his brother’s arm. “As you say, Conrí. I can wait. The anticipation will make his blood all the sweeter.”

Howe, faced with the three sets of baleful blue eyes of the children whose father he had betrayed in his own home, all but fled ahead of Loghain.

* * *

 As the group retired into the dining room and the cook’s servants began to bring out the evening meal for the Arl and his guests, Eamon let out a deep breath as he sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Well, that was bracing,” Eamon remarked with a weary sigh. “I was not expecting Loghain to show himself so swiftly.”

Teagan snorted angrily. “That was planned. Loghain knew full well whom he was going to meet here. I doubt very much he brought that jumped-up little shit Rendon Howe along for the pleasure of his company.”

“I will have his head before this Landsmeet is over,” Fergus swore.

“Not before we take everything,” Conrí growled, taking a heavy draught of mead. “We take everything from him, and leave him groveling and begging for death.”

“I would not think to deny you your revenge, Fergus,” Eamon replied calmly. “But I would ask you don’t do anything rash; keep in mind, he will be well protected by his alliance with Loghain,” Eamon let out a bitter sigh. “That obnoxious little twerp always seemed like the sort of man who enjoys kicking stray dogs. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by his actions. Rendon Howe has always been, to quote my brother, ‘a jumped-up little shit’ with an overinflated sense of his own worth, but Loghain... Loghain worries me. What unnerves me most is that I think he actually believes his own insanity, that what he is doing is in Ferelden’s best interest...”

“Old men always seem to think they know best,” Erin sneered, carving into her venison with unnatural vehemence.

“You talk of Loghain as if you’ve known him a long time,” Leliana said curiously, the tale teller in her no doubt intrigued about how a man renowned as a hero could fall so far from grace.

“Our sister Rowan married King Maric while he was still in exile; by that time, he and Loghain were inseparable. The wild prince who’d never seen the inside of a castle and the farmer’s son; when Loghain joined the rebels, he was just a raw-boned boy, but he got down on one knee and swore he would see Ferelden restored or die trying,” Eamon finished with another sad sigh. “I would never have believed that he would do anything but what was best for Ferelden.”

“Sadly, he believes he’s doing just that,” Serena said, her previous thoughts of a greedy tyrant smashed when she’d seen the Teyrn’s determination.

“And he ruins it by keeping that rat, Howe, at his side,” Conrí growled. “Serena, you’ve heard our family’s nickname, yes?”

Serena nodded. “The Wolves of the North, right?”

Conrí nodded. “Do you know why we’re called that?” Serena shook her head. “We were given the name by King Arland, as an insult as I understand it now, but we took it as a badge of pride. It is always known in Highever to never provoke what seems to be a lone wolf. For what if that wolf is not alone? If he is not, then injuring or killing that wolf may well insure his pack comes for their due. And that due may well be your throat. Howe forgot this. And it will come back to bite him.”

Eamon swallowed harshly as Conrí’s eyes flicked over him briefly. “As it is, we need ears in the city. Tomorrow, it may be wise for us to test the waters. Many nobles will no doubt be discussing current events. See if any could be swayed to our side.”

“Agreed,” Fergus nodded. “I would join you, siblings, but Oriana might well drag me out into the forest and disembowel me with a wooden cooking spoon if I dared put myself in an assassin’s sights.”

“You have yourself a wise woman, my friend,” Zevran snickered.

“I know this better than anyone, Zevran,” Fergus chuckled. “I trust you will help watch my back?” 

“It would be a pleasure.” 

* * *

 

Oriana knocked on Conrí’s door the next morning, entering when he called for her to. The group had retired to the Cousland’s Denerim estate, a property Howe had not invaded since he was far too busy renovating the Arl of Denerim’s estate. She frowned as she noticed Xolana still sleeping on his bed. Last she understood, Conrí was with that red-haired Orlesian. Deciding to figure this out later, she turned to her brother-in-law. “It seems your assassin has disappeared. As has Miss Tabris. Did you order them somewhere?”

Conrí, who was tying his boots, growled. “No. But it better be important, or I’ll have their arses in a sling.” He stood up and stomped out the door. “Thank you for letting me know, Oriana. I’ll bring them back as quickly as I can.”

Oriana nodded and followed her brother with one last puzzled look at the sleeping mage.

Conrí made his way to the market, following the guard’s directions as to where the wayward elves had gone. For some reason, they had made their way to Master Wade’s of all places. Wade was a renowned armor smith, but was also known for his intense distaste for working on what he saw as mundane. Such as a mere noble’s third set of red steel armor. Conrí, already displeased, was near spitting when he learned Zevran and Blair had absconded with the rolls of Drake scales they’d gathered.

He opened the door to Wade’s shop sharply, his eyes spying Zevran on a stool as Wade fretted about the buckles on what looked like a new set of armor. 

“Not too tight, are they?” the armorer fussed. “I was worried they would chafe.”

“No, my talented fellow,” Zevran purred. “They feel quite comfortable.”

“You’re not just telling me that to spare my feelings, are you?” Wade pouted.

“Not in the least,” Blair assured him, admiring the fine color of her bracer. “Your reputation is well deserved.”

“And what exactly have you bought that makes you think that,” Conrí growled from the doorway.

The elves tensed and slowly turned to face the angry commander. “Uh… Conrí? What brings you here?” Blair squeaked.

“The guard outside Eamon’s estate told me you had come here. And Bodahn informed me the rolls of Drake scales had gone missing yesterday. And unless my eyes deceive me, you’re now wearing them.”

“Indeed,” Wade grinned proudly. “It took me all night and most of this morning, but these must be the finest sets of armor I’ve made.”

“And most costly,” Herren, Wade’s assistant, sneered. “He cancelled four orders to work on these two sets.”

“This is my shop, Herren!” Wade protested. “If I wish to work on armor made from materials most never see a single scale of in their lives, I will, and with a smile on my face. That Captain Chase and his thugs can wait.”

Conrí strode forward and held out his hand toward Blair, who meekly put her arm in it. Conrí lifted the bracer to his eyes, examining it. His brow furrowed. “Master Wade, you say you made both of these in less than a day?”

“Indeed,” Wade puffed out his chest. “Finest bronto hide straps and silverite studs embellishing the lovely blue of the drake scale.”

“And how much did this cost?” Conrí directed at Blair.

“Since it was a rush…” she said meekly. “Thirty gold for the both of them?”

Conrí’s eyes widened. “Master Wade,” he said after a long moment.

“Yes?”

“How would you like to work with materials beyond even a drake?” Conrí asked.

“You have my undivided attention,” Wade said, suddenly serious.

“I have in my possession the remains of a Fereldan Frostback and a Highland Ravager,” Conrí told the smith whose eyes grew to the size of sovereigns.

“What now?” Herren asked, obviously not learned in the study of draconology.

“A pair of High Dragons,” Conrí explained. Before the obviously coin-minded man could sputter about wastes of time and flights of fancy, Conrí continued. “I do not intend for this to be an unfunded project, as I require many sets to be made.” Conrí pulled the pouch he’d brought from Soldier’s Peak to, ironically, fund new armor for everyone who needed it. “There is just under two hundred crowns in here. Provided you can have the armor finished before the Landsmeet, this is yours.”

Herren’s eyes got, if possible, even wider than Wade’s as the flamboyant armorer dashed forward and pulled Conrí into a bone splintering hug. “Haha! Herren, I want no new orders while I work! Warden, I will have your armor done by week’s end at the latest! Just send me your people once the materials arrive!”

“As you say,” Conrí grunted as he pried himself from the man’s surprisingly strong grip. “Blair, go find Bodahn and tell him to bring the cart around back and you,” he pointed at Zevran who quailed slightly. “Get back to the estate and watch my brother’s back like you said you would. Send Alistair and Erin to the Gnawed Noble when you get there. We have business to attend to there. And let the others know they’re needed here for measurements. Xolana, Tristan, Serena and Garik are exempt since they have sufficient armor, but the others are still running around in Viridium and such.”

“Aye-aye,” Zevran mumbled, darting through the open door, followed quickly by Blair, both elves eager to escape their leader’s ire.

“I’ll return before supper to get my own measurements,” Conrí assured Wade. “This can’t wait, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” Wade agreed. “I eagerly await the arrival of the materials and my future muses.”

* * *

Even early in the morning, the Gnawed Noble was doing a roaring trade; a good number of nobles were already gathered, breaking their fast in the tavern and discussing the upcoming Landsmeet amongst themselves.

“You’re being very foolish. Why would Loghain leave half our own army to die when a Blight threatens? I take him at his word; the battle couldn’t be won,” one nobleman, an ugly, balding fellow sat at one of the tables lining the wall protested, loud enough for them to hear as they walked by.

“Even  _you_ must admit there has been a suspicious rash of mortality among the advisors to the Crown. Bryce, Urien, Eamon...” another noble, a blonde, bearded man of middle years retorted sharply.

“Eamon’s not dead! More’s the pity,” the balding noble sneered.

“That was beneath you,” the second noble snapped, before looking around pensively, as if he feared being eavesdropped. “Though I will grant you, I am... discomforted by Eamon’s notion of placing this bastard on Maric’s throne; it would set an ill precedent.”

“True, I would much rather see Anora keep the throne myself; far better it pass to the Mac Tir line than to some...  _by-blow_!” the first noble nodded.

Conrí snorted. “Bann Ceorlic,” Conrí growled to Alistair. “Fulfilling his family’s reputation as the biggest arsekissers in Fereldan. That one in particular is the son of one of the traitors who murdered Queen Moira, your grandmother. Ceorlic, the son, couldn’t backpedal from the Orlesians quick enough during the war. 

“And the other gentleman with him?” Alistair asked as they sat at an empty table.

“Bann Sighard, lord of Dragon’s Peak,” Erin answered. “A good man, if forceful. He’s strong in his convictions, but to my knowledge he’s sitting on the sidelines at the moment. We’ll have to change that.”

“And those two?” Alistair asked, nodding to the back of the tavern. Conrí looked up and waved to a broad-shouldered man sat at a table in the far corner, talking to a striking young woman, dressed in studded leather armor, her braided brunette hair, pale skin and green eyes that Alistair caught a glimpse of as the woman turned round to see who her companion was acknowledging, were quite eye-catching.

“Arl Leonas Bryland of South Reach,” Conrí told him. “You’ve met his lovely daughter Habren in the Market. His support we can count on as he hates Howe as much as Erin and I do.”

“Why is that?” Alistair questioned.

Erin’s expression soured. “His sister was Elaine Howe nee Bryland, Rendon’s late wife.” Alistair choked on his mead. “I don’t know what was said between them before Howe’s marriage, but Bryland cut all ties with both of them after.”

“His lovely companion is Bann Alfstanna of the Waking Sea,” Conrí continued. “Only twenty five and yet she’s one of the most promising nobles in Ferelden; she’s restored her Bannorn’s treasuries to levels unseen in years, opened up lucrative trade routes across the Waking Sea and has quite a reputation for being a firm and even-handed ruler, popular and respected by the people. If we could get her on our side...”

“And you’ve met Arl Gallagher Wulff,” Erin gestured to the lone bearded man sitting near the door. “He’s a good man but…”

Alistair nodded, understanding. It was understandable why Wulff was bitter. He’d lost both his sons in the Blight and had no assistance when the Darkspawn flooded his lands. Conrí, despite Wulff’s gruff, angry greeting had expressed his condolences.

_“I understand your pain, my Arl,” he said quietly. “We didn’t always agree, but I considered your boys friends.”_

_Wulff was silent for a moment before he sighed. “Aye, I suppose you would understand, Young Cousland. I appreciate your words, but I’d rather drink alone.”_

_“Of course,” Conrí nodded. “You have my sword when you aim to retake you lands, if you wish it.”_

Alistair’s thoughts were interrupted as Arl Bryland approached the table. Conrí and Erin stood to great him, Alistair scrambling to do the same.

“Conrí, Erin,” Bryland opened his arms, pulling the siblings into his embrace. “I was relieved to hear you were unharmed after Ostagar. It must be said, were it not for the Blight, I would have sent men to take Howe’s head myself, but my people—”

“Leonas,” Conrí cut the arl off. “Your apology is unnecessary. Howe will get what he deserves, but you were right to keep your soldiers closer to home.”

“Your words are kind, cub,” Leonas sighed. “Though I don’t suppose I can call you that anymore, can I? Not when you almost smack your head on the doorway,” the Arl chuckled. “Come, join Alfstanna and I. I’d like to hear what has been going on. I hear you arrived from Orzammar.”

“Aye, just let me refresh our drinks,” Conrí said, gesturing with four fingers to the barman, who nodded and filled four mugs with mead and sent a waitress over. Conrí took three of the tankards and told the woman, “Bring that to Arl Wulff over there. I’d wager he needs one.” He dropped a few coins with a generous tip into her hand, causing the barmaid to nod eagerly and scurry over to Wulff, who was just tilting his head back to finish his drink. Just when he was about to call for another, the woman set the full tankard in front of him. Wulff squinted at the woman, who gestured back to Bryland’s table where Conrí had just sat down. Conrí looked over his shoulder and he and the others at the table lifted their tankards in salute to Wulff. The surly Arl looked baffled but slowly returned it, nodding in thanks.

“I’m not sure how kind it was to give that man more drink,” Alfstanna said quietly. “He’s been in here all morning.”

“Considering what the man went through, I say he can drink a keg to himself and I won’t say a cross word to him,” Conrí grunted.

“I suppose so,” Alfstanna sighed sadly. “His sons were good lads.”

“Aye, they were,” Leonas agreed. “So, this is the infamous Therein bastard,” he added, causing Alistair to once again choke on his mead at the sheer bluntness of Bryland’s comment. Conrí thumped the poor man on the back, lest he drown in the honey based liquor. “Ah, don’t be shocked lad. Put you next to Cailan or Maric and only a fool wouldn’t see the similarities.”

“Didn’t Eamon say he raised you?” Alfstanna questioned.

“If you call sleeping in the kennels and acting as a servant raised, then yes,” Conrí grumbled. The two nobles joining him mimicked Alistair and choked on their drinks. Conrí went on to explain what had happened while Alistair was growing up.

The bastard prince couldn’t help but get the feeling Conrí wasn’t trying to get them on Eamon’s side, but his own. Conrí himself had even said the alliance with the Arl of Redcliffe was one of necessity, and would likely dissolve once the Blight was defeated. He’d made his opinion of Eamon well known. Alistair could only hope this didn’t blow up in his fellow Warden’s face, though he supposed Conrí had more experience playing these games then he did. 

* * *

While Conrí was off handling what he needed done in the Tavern, Fergus approached two young women who had accompanied his younger siblings. “Uh, Leliana? Xolana? Would you mind if I had a word?”

Xolana looked up from a spell book she was studying, looking like she'd been woken up from a trance since she was so deep in concentration. “What? Me? Yes?” she rambled.

Leliana, who had been discussing something with Zevran, the only other person in the room, asks him to excuse her and leave the three alone once she noticed Fergus' expression. “Of course, Fergus. What do you need?”

Fergus looked extremely uncomfortable. “Would you mind if we did this in my quarters? I'd rather not be overheard,” he said lowly.

Xolana eyed him suspiciously for a moment but then simply shrugged, looking to Leli for an opinion. When the bard also just shrugged and shook her head in an equally unsure sort of way, the mage simply nodded to Fergus. “Lead the way,” she said finally, placing the book on a table for later.

Fergus led the way back to his room, where Oriana was waiting.

Leliana furrowed her brow as the trio entered the rather impressive master bedroom. “What is this about?” she asked, suddenly wary.

Xolana crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I want some answers, too,” she said. “You're acting pretty suspicious, Fergus.”

“It's about Conrí,” Fergus finally sighed. He had a feeling this would end poorly.

Both mage and bard immediately dropped from suspicion to worry. Xolana had been asleep when Conrí left, and Leliana hadn’t seen him since she’d risen that morning. “Is something wrong?” Leliana asked.

“I've been made aware that he's been...” Fergus faltered, looking for a way to put his words delicately. “Active with the both of you. I had hoped my brother had grown up a bit since he joined the Wardens, but apparently this isn't the case. I don't know what he's said to you two, but my brother wouldn't know monogamy if it shivved him like an Orlesian bard.” Leliana hid her immense amusement at the bard comment but struggled to find the words to say at the moment.

Xolana opened and closed her mouth a few times, looking like she had be struck speechless and was attempting to form a coherent thought, while trying to decide how to respond to that.

“Conrí’s had the well earned reputation of being a player since he was 17,” Fergus went on. When they had both been younger and single, he’d found his brother’s antics amusing. Now… “If it were any other time, I wouldn't be butting in, but considering the circumstances...”

Leliana was about to say something when Xolana, who had decided on her approach, interrupted her. “He... He what?” she asked, still the perfect face of incredulity, addressing the bard at her side, her face turning stony but not facing her. “Leliana.... is this true? Did you know about this?”

Leliana furrowed her brow for a moment before she realized with an internal sigh what Xolana was doing and started to slowly shake her head. “Xol, I...”

Xolana appeared to be barely containing her rage, but was – as Leli alone well knew – in reality trying to avoid bursting out with the laughter that was now roiling in her stomach. “That... that _bastard_ …”

“You cannot blame yourselves for this. Conrí, unfortunately, inherited what Fergus and his father both called the Cousland charm,” Oriana scowled. “I love my brother-in-law, but it's times like these I want to strangle him.”

“You _want_ to. I _will_ ,” Xolana’s voice promised death as she turned to storm towards the door, cracking into a grin now that no one could see her face.

“Xolana, calm down,” Leliana got up and seized the retreating mage’s arm. While it had been some time since she had played the game, she was still better at schooling her features then Xolana, but even she was having a hard time keeping her mask in place. “There's a reason Fergus told us in here and not out in the commons.”

Xolana growled something along the lines of “...you're right,” although she sent Leliana a subtle wink when she was certain the others wouldn't notice. Her act quickly returned, pretending she was just about managing to keep herself in check, and she glared at all three people in the room. “So why did you tell us? What exactly do you hope will happen from here?”

“I brought it up because you deserved to know,” Fergus said simply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I did it in private because we can't show weakness in the Landsmeet or against the Darkspawn. Even though your grievance with my brother is valid, I must ask that you keep it between us until both are taken care of.”

Conrí, with his immaculate sense of timing, decided to choose that precise moment to poke his head in the room. “Uh, Fergus, Oren's... looking for... you...” his voice trailed of as he realized he had four sets of eyes glaring at him “What did I do?”

Leliana tried mightily to keep her stoic face up, but broke out in uncontrollable giggles when she witnessed the surprisingly youthful look of almost dread on Conrí’s face. This caused the expression to become puzzled, mirroring his brother and sister-in-law. 

Likewise, Xolana tried very hard to hold it – one might go as far as to consider her effort heroic – but hearing Leli giggle next to her made the blood mage burst out into laughter as well, so hard she was close to tears. “Maker preserve us... I'm sorry I... I can't, it's too funny...!”

Leliana sent an apologetic grin towards a very confused looking Fergus and Oriana while still trying to get her own laughter under control.

“I repeat, what in the Maker's name did I do?” Conrí demanded, stepping fully into the room.

“I was made aware of your... activities with both these young women, Brother,” Fergus told him.

Rather than looking terrified like Fergus expected, Conrí merely appeared aggravated. “Balls. This is why I didn't bring it up Fergus. You're misunderstanding the situation.”

“And how do you figure that?” Oriana asked, crossing her arms. She’d witnessed Xolana sleeping in Conrí’s bed that very morning.

Xolana managed to get enough of a grip on herself to force out a couple of words amidst her giggles. “Because we _knew_ ,” she sputtered.

“More to the point, we were entirely involved in the process,” Leliana giggled, trying to help Xolana remain standing, though was having difficulty breathing herself.

If one had been below Denerim at that very moment, they would have found Fergus’s jaw in the Deep Roads somewhere. “................ What?”

Conrí let out an exasperated sigh. “We talked about it a few months ago and agreed there was no reason to not give it a try.”

“Wait, all three of you?” Oriana asked, bewildered. It sounded like one of those bad romance novels her countrymen enjoyed so dearly. The women in question gave a bit of a bashful nod and chuckle each.

Fergus, after retrieving his jaw from its spelunking expedition, fished in his desk and pulled out a flask. Taking a long pull he looked to his wife. “This is not how I thought this would go.”

“Indeed,” Oriana agreed. “When you said you didn't know if there was a woman who could tame your brother, I didn't realize the problem was the amount of women.”

Xolana still amused quipped out, “I'm not sure it's fair to say we've ‘tamed’ him...”

“Perhaps more... ‘keep him too occupied to keep straying,”’ Leliana offered.

Conrí was silent for a long moment. “They told you about the serving girls at Highever, didn't they?” he asked finally, his face one of grim acceptance. The ladies both raised their eyebrows at that. 

“I'm not sure they got to that part quite yet,” Xolana muttered.

“Something you'd like to share?” Leliana asked, an all-too cheerful grin on her face.

Conrí opened his mouth, before quickly closing it again. “It's a long story,” he said finally.

“Uh-huh,” Xolana sent her lover a sneaky grin. “I'm sure we'll have the time for it at some point.”

“I'll admit, I'm rather curious myself, now,” Leliana chuckled with a wink.

“Let's just say our mother never looked at those two women the same way after,” Fergus’s hedged after taking another healthy draught from his flask. “Tends to happen when you catch your child with two elven maids. At the same time.”

“Damnit Fergus...” Conrí gritted his teeth. 

“Definitely a story I want to hear in more detail,” Xolana snickered.

“Agreed,” Leliana smirked with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Don't encourage him!” Conrí groaned. 

Xolana rolled her eyes affectionately. “Alright. So, Fergus,” she said, looking over at him as she took Conrí’s hand with Leliana taking the other “Sorry I pretended this was news to me. I thought it would be funny. You should’ve seen your face, though!”

“Was there anything else you needed, Fergus? Oriana?” Leliana asked, suppressing another bout of giggles.

“Yeah, he needs to retrieve his heir before Sten eats him,” Conrí said sourly. “Oren's been pestering him all day.”

Fergus sighed and took another hit. “I'll go get him,” he said, rising and heading out the door. While Conrí seemed to trust the Qunari, Fergus was still leery about leaving his young heir with the large man. 

Oriana approached as Fergus took his leave. “So, you three are serious about this? This isn't a wartime fling?”

“Well this _is_ all still rather new, but...” Xolana looked a bit concerned. “I don't see why it _couldn’t_ work, if we decide we still feel the same way later?”

Leliana took the lead, understanding what Xolana was trying to get to. “I think what she's trying to say is that this is as serious as three people facing almost certain death ever can be at a given point.”

“Well, it worked for your mother and father, Conrí,” Oriana sighed. “I hope it works for you three as well. If you'll excuse me, I need to see how supper is coming,” she bowed slightly and saw herself out.

“Well... that was not how I envisioned telling my brother,” Conrí said, his voice suddenly very weary.

Xolana squeezed his hand affectionately. “It all worked out in the end, didn't it?” she asked.

“He certainly took it better than I would've hoped,” Leliana admitted.

Conrí shook his head and wrapped his arms around both women. “I swear, the both of you are gonna make me grey by thirty.”

“It's what we're here for,” Xolana grinned.

“You're gonna get it later,” Conrí growled.

Xolana’s grin widened. “I hope!”

“You're just encouraging her,” Leliana chuckled.

“I know,” he said as he swatted Xolana on the ass, causing a girlish yelp.

* * *

A few evenings later, Conrí was rather abruptly pulled from his room when Fergus informed him that Eamon had requested a word. Conrí grit his teeth and pulled on his traveling gear and a spare longsword borrowed from the armory. He rather didn’t feel like suiting up to walk the five minutes to Eamon’s estate.

“I trust you’ve made yourself comfortable?” Eamon asked with an ironic note in his voice, as if Conrí hadn’t slept under his roof since arriving.

“Yes, very nice” Conrí muttered distractedly as he entered the arl’s study, his gaze focused on the only other figure in the room besides himself, Alistair and Eamon, shorter than the others, face hidden beneath a hooded black cloak.

“Good, because it’s likely to be your last rest for quite some time,” Eamon said as he made to the door of his study, looked to ensure there was no one nearby to eavesdrop, then closed and locked it. The moment the lock clicked, the figure pulled down the hood of their cloak, revealing a female elf in her thirties, dark hair framing her pale face, dressed in a maid’s attire, but much finer than the usual clothing elven servants wore.

Eamon gestured to the elven woman, a touch annoyed at the late hour at which his guest had appeared. “This is Erlina. She’s-”

“Anora’s handmaiden,” Conrí said grumpily, recognizing the elf. “We’ve met. When Anora sent her to snoop around about the rumors that Erin was sleeping with Cailan.”

“Wait, what?!” Alistair balked.

“Unfounded of course,” Conrí told him.

“Yes…” Erlina looked bashful. “I learned she, in fact… preferred the company of women.”

Conrí snorted. “If I recall her exact words were, ‘If I wanted a royal tryst, I wouldn’t be paying the _king_ a visit in his bed chambers.’”

Alistair snickered. “Well, then why is she here? Loghain curious who Erin’s sleeping with now? You’d think he’d have better things to do then root out a woman half his age’s personal activities.”

“I’m here for Loghain’s daughter, not Loghain!” the elf blurted out.

“So now Anora’s after my sister’s knickers?” Conrí asked blandly, causing the elf to shriek in protest and Alistair to slump over the table he’d been leaning on, laughing uproariously. Even Eamon, who’d begun to rub the bridge of his nose in irritation, was fighting a smirk.

“No!” Erlina bayed. “The queen and her father… Their interests are not as similar as they once were.”

“Which brings us to the reason you are here,” Eamon interrupted, and Erlina had the sense to return the conversation back to the matter of business.

“The queen, she is in a difficult position,” Erlina explained, looking quickly between the three men present. “She loved her husband, no? And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think? She worries, no? But when she tries to ask her father, he doesn’t answer; he just tells her ‘not to trouble’ herself.”

“Because that always goes so well with Anora,” Conrí rolled her eyes. “So her faith in her father has waned since Ostagar?”

“My queen suspects she can no longer trust her father,” Erlina nodded in agreement. “And Loghain, he is very subtle, no? But Rendon Howe... he is privy to all the secrets and... not so subtle. So, she goes to Howe. A visit from the queen to the new Arl of Denerim... it is only a matter of courtesy. And she demands answers.”

“Considering what I’ve heard of the man, I’m guessing that went well,” Alistair murmured darkly from his position in the corner.

The elven woman nodded. “He calls her every sort of name, ‘traitor’ being the kindest, and locks her in a guest room.”

“And Loghain would allow this?” Conrí asked skeptically. 

“King Cailan was like a son to him, and Loghain left him to die,” Erlina said, shrugging her shoulders sadly. “Does he love Anora more? Who can say? If he thought she was standing in his way, or doing something not to Ferelden’s benefit...” There was a long pause before the handmaiden spoke again, a desperate look in her eyes. “I think her life is in danger,” the elf said earnestly, directing her attention to the arl. “I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon.”

Conrí rolled his eyes. “Anora always did have a flair for the dramatic. You expect me to believe that Loghain, all for the sake of getting one over on Arl Eamon at the Landsmeet, would take the word of a cockroach like Howe and kill his own child?” Conrí shook his head. “Tell me, why should I give this tall tale the time of day, let alone my full attention?”

“Because you don’t want Loghain ruling Ferelden, and if Anora speaks out at the Landsmeet, her voice could sway many nobles,” Erlina replied a little smugly.

Conrí scowled. They were looking to unseat Loghain, that was true. But how far would this rabbit hole lead? What did Anora truly want? She had the throne, tenuous as it was with her father usurping most of her power.

“We may have no choice but to trust Anora,” Eamon interjected into Conrí’s thoughts. “The queen is well-loved. If Loghain succeeds in pinning her death on me... I’m not sure that’s a risk we can afford to take.”

“This reeks of trap, Eamon,” Conrí growled. “You know it as well as I.”

“I fear if this is a trap, we’re already caught in it. They can kill Anora whether or not we act and blame her death on us. With things as they are, few would believe our word over Loghain’s; we can only defend ourselves with the Queen in hand.”

Conrí grimaced angrily, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Once more, he was going to have to stick his head into the lion’s mouth, and there was no guarantee he would emerge unscathed, and worst of all was the fact he had no choice, since as the damned elf has pointed out, standing aside and leaving this matter untouched would only cause them more trouble. 

“What do you propose we do?”Conrí sighed bitterly.

“I have some uniforms,” Erlina cut in before Eamon could reply. “Arl Howe hires so many new guards every day, a few more will not cause much stir...”

“No, no, no,” Conrí interrupted, already seeing the flaws in that plan. The fact that this whole affair was almost certainly a trap ruled Alistair out from going, and Shale was an obvious no; the golem was not designed for subterfuge. Conrí very much doubted that Howe would stoop to hiring Qunari, elves and dwarves for his guard no matter how desperate he was for hired thugs, which would make the presence of Sten, Oghren or Zevran in a guard uniform difficult to explain. Add to the fact ‘misogynist’ ranked somewhere amongst Rendon Howe’s list of fine personal qualities, there weren’t likely to be any women amongst his household guard. “That will never work; unlike you, I know Rendon Howe, and if I and any of my companions show up in his estate wearing the uniform of his guards, it’s going to attract far too much attention, for us and your mistress. No, I have a better plan...”

Erlina seemed irritated at having had her plan – or more likely her mistress’s, since Conrí doubted the elf came up with such a notion herself — dismissed, but when she spoke again, she was the very picture of servile courtesy. “Very well, inform me when you are ready and I will lead you to Howe’s estate. Please do not take too long, Warden; I fear my lady does not have much time...” Erlina pleaded, before allowing one of Eamon’s servants to lead her to suitable quarters for the night, oblivious to or ignoring the wary glares all three men were directing at her retreating back for making their lives and the task ahead so much more difficult.

“One day,” Conrí muttered darkly. “One  _glorious_  day, I’ll be able to go somewhere where every grown man and woman doesn’t need my help in fixing their fecking problems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I used is a heavily modified version of Diggy Diggy Hole by Yogscast. As for those wondering why i used Avvar titles for Chasind folks, its because i honestly couldn't find anything on how the Chasind address each other. And rather then making something up, i decided to go with in world terms. If anyone has better ideas, I'd love to hear them since i had none. XD Thanks again for being so patient with my hiatus. As i said before, i was so burned out on this story that i couldn't bring myself to do much with it besides scenes that will occur later. When, i can't say since spoilers, but i have no plans on abandoning this story anytime soon. Hope you all enjoyed.   
> ~Sin


	39. Rescuing the Queen and other Such Nonsense

Xolana burst out giggling. “Wait, so you’re telling me that, rather than scolding me once again for my ways, you’re now requesting I use them to help you sneak into an Arl’s palace?”

“Believe me, love, the irony isn’t lost on me,” Conrí grunted, holding out the rather… provocative dress. 

Conrí’s plan did leave a sour taste in his mouth. Knowing Howe as he did, Conrí was certain that the bastard wouldn’t look beyond a woman’s “assets” if she dressed up as one of the Pearl’s workers. Sanga, having her own issues with Howe’s men, was eager to assist any endeavor to check the arrogant rat’s ego and provided outfits free of charge.

The plan was for Conrí, Erin, Tira, Oghren and Sten to disguise themselves as bouncers for the Pearl while Leliana, Xolana and Blair would be an “act of goodwill” from Sanga. In reality, the madam of Denerim’s premiere brothel had less than friendly feelings towards the supposed Arl of her city.

“If you get the chance, gut the bastard,” she’d said. “I’ve had enough of his thugs taking liberties with my people. The only reason my boys haven’t broken every one of their fingers is Howe’s location firmly up the arse of the Regent.”

Tira’s voice brought Conrí back to the present. “While I can’t complain about not being stared at like a slab of meat by a pack of hungry jackals, Commander, but why are Erin and I in armor instead of… whatever Xolana is currently wearing.”

While Conrí had been mulling over the plan, Xolana had changed into the dress provided by Sanga. Despite the fact that he, Xolana and Leliana had shared a bed for nearly a month now, Conrí suddenly found himself flat-footed.

Seeing the wide eyes and faint red coloring of her usually stoic lover, a mischievous grin broke over Xolana face. “Something wrong, Commander? You aren’t running a fever, are you?”

Conrí scowled as Erin joined in on the teasing. “Dear brother, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you never seen a woman in such attire.”

Conrí growled before straightening slightly. “It is less what is being worn than who is wearing it, Sister.”

“That was good, Conrí,” Fergus chuckled, slapping his brother on the back as he passed. “That was really good.”

“I cannot say I disagree,” Xolana admitted, just a bit sour her teasing hadn’t held quite as much as she had hoped. Still, she wrapped her arms around Conrí and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. His words, while possible to be seen as just a verbal riposte to deflect the gentle mockery, were still affectionate.

A small smirk came over Conrí’s face. Xolana and Leliana had grown to love and dread that expression. It was part smug, grizzled wolf, and part what remained of Conrí’s previous and infamous bad boy persona.

Tira cleared her throat, looking at Conrí expectantly. Her expression spoke quite clearly, ‘if you’re quite done with the mating dance?’

“Right,” Conrí rumbled, chagrined he’d allowed himself to be distracted so easily. _Then again,_ he thought as Xolana shifted slightly, her barely covered chest brushing up against his arm, _in instances like these, I think my distraction can be forgiven._ “Howe would recognize Erin in a heart beat if she went in as one of Sanga’s girls, which is why she is a guard and the both of us will be wearing full-face helms. As for you, Mahariel, I am not aware of any Dalish working as a courtesan anywhere in the city. Such a thing would get around quickly. On the other hand, a Dalish merc is much less likely to turn heads.”

Tira’s frowned slightly. “Are Dalish mercenaries that common?” While it was true they had encountered a few elven sellswords under the employ of the carta in Orzammar, she’d seen none in human lands.

“It isn’t common, no, but not unheard-of,” Conrí explained. “The Blackstone Irregulars for instance have a number of elves from all over Fereldan. The only trouble comes in places like Denerim where elves are unlikely to be allowed weapons. But, since you are ‘employed’ by Sanga, as long as you don’t wander off, I doubt many guards will give you a hard time.”

“Arl Urien’s ridiculous policies have unfortunately been continued and worsened by Howe,” Blair sneered, making sure her dirk was hidden in her rather revealing clothing. Despite its immodest design, Blair realized Sanga had these outfits designed with concealed weapons in mind. While a stern businesswoman, Sanga definitely seemed keen on looking out for her people. 

“Hopefully we’ll be rid of both before too long,” Erin growled, checking the edge of her swords.

“Aye,” Conrí agreed. “On that note, we had best get moving. We wouldn’t want her Majesty to think we had forgotten about her.”

“Perish the thought,” Erin rolled her eyes.

* * *

The group’s trek across the Palace District drew the eyes of many nobles and wealthy homeowners. Conrí rumbled quietly to the group to ignore the stares. While the presence of the Pearl’s workers wasn’t uncommon, the number of armed guards was. A few of the wealthier occupants even tried to request time with the girls. Conrí had politely, if gruffly, informed them the girls’ time had already been paid for. “If you want to schedule something, I would advise speaking directly with Sanga at the Pearl,” he’d said, his accent pitched to mimic someone from the breadbasket of the Bannorn rather than a coastlander.

If someone pushed the issue, Conrí would grip the pommel of his sword while Sten or Oghren came to flank him. In one memorable instance, Oghren even pressed the top flat of his maul’s head to the throat of a visiting minor noble.

“Listen, pal,” he’d growled, his whiskey bass voice dangerously pitched. “I don’t give a nug’s arse if you’re the Bann of Amaranthine or the sodding king of Kal Sharok, you were told no. We protect these lovely ladies and if you don’t back off, well, I might just have to take this big ol’ hammer and paint these cobbles with your brains. Get me?”

The noble nodded, trembling and immediately fled when Oghren lowered his maul. The dwarf let out a snicker, commenting he could swear the man had wet himself.

“Come,” Sten interjected. “We have a job to complete.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming ya giant bastard.”

Conrí shook his head and led them onwards. As they neared the Arl’s estate, the dwarf and qunari got into one of their bristling matches.

“Dwarf,” Sten barked.

“What?” Oghren grunted.

“Stop tripping me.”

“Stop tripping yourself!”

“If you were important enough to notice, I wouldn’t step on you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well… yer mother!”

“That was disappointing,” Sten commented, his tone losing its aggression and becoming bland. “I expected better from you.”

Oghren grunted, his voice chagrinned. “Eh, sorry, I was in a rush.”

Before Conrí could tell the pair to shut it, they walked through the portcullis to their destination. Numerous tradesmen had gathered outside the building, all shouting at the guards.

Conri frowned beneath his helm. _This might cause problems,_ he thought. Erlina, recognizing the girls, scurried from her place near the crowd.

“I hope your plan is going to work,” she said grumpily. “The servant’s entrance is located on the other side of the estate. We must slip past the crowd to reach it but we must be careful. Arl Howe is here today.”

Conrí and Erin stiffened. Those who knew them could feel the undiluted hatred rolling off the twins. Even Erlina flinched, as if someone had walked over her grave; she suddenly realized why her mistress respected this family as she did.

Conrí was the first to shake off his hatred for the moment. “Why the crowd?” he rasped.

“The estate is in poor repair; the new Arl has not exactly been prompt in paying his workmen,” Erlina explained. “Thus far, the protest has been peaceful, but I do not anticipate it remaining that way.”

“The Carpenters Craft Hall has had quite enough of Howe’s conveniently busy schedule!” one protester barked. “We will not be put off again!”

“Nor will the stonemasons!” snarled a second man. “It’s been more than a month since we’ve seen so much as a coin for our work!”

“His lordship is very much engaged with the Regent. He will address your complaints when he has the time,” one of the guards tried to explain.

“And when will that be?” the carpenter snapped. “At the dawn of the next Age?! Our people have families to feed; they can’t wait forever on the Arl’s whims!”

Conrí, a cruel thought echoing in his mind, started forward, walking around the crowd. One of the guards noticed his approach. “If you’re here to lodge a complaint, I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told the rest of this lot. The Arl is quite busy at the moment.”

“Far from it, my friend,” Conrí chuckled. “Madam Sanga has sent these three lovelies as a… gesture of good will.”

The other Guard snorted. “Likely the she-wolf wants us to stop searching her building every other week, ever since Paeden and his band of louts was turned to chum by them Wardens.”

The first guard sighed. “And what are you five doing with them?”

Conrí leaned in slightly. “Just making sure things don’t get… uncomfortable for Sanga’s girls. Your fellows have been getting a mite too comfortable taking liberties with them. We’re here to ensure things stay pleasurable for all parties.”

The guard swallowed, taking in the man who stood before him, standing at least a head taller than him and clad in red steel plate with a full helm. “R-right. T-take ‘em round back.”

“What?!” the carpenter squawked. “Howe can afford whores but not to pay us?!”

Conrí chuckled cruelly as the ire of the crowd was stoked once again. “That should be a decent enough distraction,” he said.

* * *

The second set of guards took a little more convincing to get past, but between Conrí’s thinly veiled threats and Sten’s size, the group passed them with no bloodshed. 

The dining hall was crowded and Conrí caught snippets of numerous conversations.

“It’s bad luck living in a house where all the family got killed. I say Howe ought to level the place and build a new one,” one guard muttered as he and two others entered the hall.

“He’d have to knock down every place he owns, then!” another guard added to sniggers from his companions, and Conrí made sure to slam into the speaker, the full weight of his shoulder hitting the man with considerable force. The guard looked about to make some comment, but one cold glare from behind the helm's visor, not to mention his size and the company he kept ensured that the man kept any comment to himself.

“I hope it’s not mutton again. Three nights in a row...” another guardsman griped a short distance later as they passed him and another in the corridor just outside the mess hall, both wearing tabards bearing the Howe sigil over their chainmail and looking as they'd just finished a long sparring session.

“For all we know, it's not mutton; Howe’s too cheap to buy it. Cook’s probably roasting those elves that broke in here.”

“You realize that doesn't help, right? Urgh...!” the first speaker complained.

The entire group was seething at all they heard when they finally made it to the Queen’s door, clenching their fists silently to restrain themselves from blowing their cover right there.

“The Grey Warden is here, my lady,” Erlina whispered through the door. 

“Thank the Maker!” Anora's muffled voice carried through the door. She sounded alright, if a little exasperated. “I would greet you properly, but I'm afraid we've had something of a setback.”

“Of fecking course we have,” Conrí uttered angrily.

“My ‘host’ was not content with leaving me under heavy guard,” Anora continued to speak, clearly having missed his comment. “He's sealed the door by magic.”

Before the group could blink, Blair had drawn a dagger and held it to Erlina’s throat. “Would you like to explain why we didn’t know this little tidbit, whelp?”

“I didn't know; there were only guards here when I left!” the elf blabbed, clearly aware from the look on the thief's face her life hung on the answer.

“Don’t panic, Erlina!” Anora snapped, blissfully unaware of the situation occurring outside her door. “Find the mage who cast the spell. He’ll most likely be at Howe's side.”

“Kadan, this is folly,” Sten interjected, his violet eyes wary behind his helm and his hand close to the hilt of his sword. “Our enemy must have known we were coming, else he would not have his pet saarebas block this door to deny us. To go further is to surely walk headlong into a trap...”

“I’m aware, Sten,” Conrí growled. “But we have enough little recourse at this stage.

“Please Warden, I beg you,” Erlina pleaded, holding the paper thin cut on her throat once Blair released her with a huff. “Do not leave my Queen in there.”

“Free me and I promise you my aid at the Landsmeet,” Anora added, rather unnecessarily in Conrí’s opinion, since he couldn’t exactly leave Anora there; he’d never hear the end of it from Eamon for a start, to say nothing of what would happen if Anora’s fears for her safety proved to be genuine.

“Where would Howe be?” Conrí demanded.

“His rooms are at the end of this hallway,” Anora told him, relief in her tone.

“Very well,” Conrí turned to Erlina. “You, stay here,” he said sharply. “I’m amazed no one noticed you with us before now. But it’s high time you did something useful and stay by the door.”

As Erlina sputtered indignantly, Anora piped in, “What attention would a servant attract with household guards?”

“None,” Erin interjected. “But we’re not dressed as guards.”

Xolana giggled. “Lady Sanga was more then willing to provide… disguises for a few of us.”

Anora seemed to be struck dumb and the group took their chance to leave. 

“She’s as charming as ever,” Erin deadpanned.

“Least this time she isn’t looking into your sex life,” Conrí droned.

“And I am quite thankful for that,” Tira commented. 

The lack of guards between Anora’s room and Howe’s chamber immediately put Conrí on edge. “You think she told Howe we were coming?” Erin asked, picking up on her twin’s tension.

“Possible,” Conrí grunted. “More likely her little mouse did. After all, it was a poorly kept secret that Alistair is Cailan’s brother. I’ve little doubt Loghain informed her when news got out that we survived Ostagar.”

“And now she hopes to leverage us into supporting her bid for the throne after knocking her father from it,” Leliana sighed.

“You catch on quickly,” Conrí nodded. “Anora always did play these games better than Cailan. Or at least, enjoyed it more.”

They found a small treasure room not far from Howe’s room, cleaning it of the likely ill-gotten gains after Xolana picked the lock. Blair had suggested the mage get some rogue practice while the opportunity presented itself.

They entered the Lord’s chambers not long later, realizing Howe had moved them nearer to the dungeon. At the moment, the room was empty. A growl echoed in the de facto commander’s helm. “Search the room,” Conrí ordered sharply.

Blair immediately headed to a heavy Iron chest near the stairs down to the dungeons. Pulling her new set of silverite locksmith tools from her dress, she made quick if the heavy but simple lock. She rifled through the chest, pulling out documents until she found one that caught her eye. “Conrí,” she called holding up a scroll. “You should see this.”

Conrí looked up from searching the wardrobe and strode over. The scroll was fairly inexpensive in quality, but what drew his eye was the broken seal of a rampant griffin.

_Grey Warden documents? What in Andraste's name is Howe doing with these?_

The dialect they'd been written in seemed to be Orlesian, but not even Leliana could make sense of it, declaring that even in her native tongue, the writing was gibberish, likely some form of encryption to ensure, even if the documents fell into the wrong hands, nothing would be gained from them. Putting the scrolls of parchment out of his mind and into the sack, Conrí led them through a small iron door at the far side of the room, leading down into the lower recesses of the manor. 

"What? Who goes there?" the single guard on duty demanded as they entered the room at the foot of the stairs, the first section of the dungeons, just as a thin, pale arm darted out through the bars of the cell behind the guard and wrapped itself around the man's neck. The man struggled desperately against his attacker, choking as the pressure around his throat increased, before a second hand darted out, seized the guard's head and twisted. There was a loud crack and the guard slumped to the floor, neck snapped with chilling precision. The hand that had killed the guard retrieved a ring of keys from his belt, inserted one into the lock and opened the door.

"I thank you for creating such distraction, stranger. I have been waiting days for the opportunity." A scruffy looking man of later years, his dark hair liberally streaked with grey, said as he stumbled out of the cell, helping himself to the guard's armor, before bundling the corpse into the cell. He looked exhausted and there were deep cuts and welts on his body that suggested he'd been tortured. _But for information or simply for Howe's sick amusement?_ Conrí wondered.

"You never hear music in the sound of a key turning in a lock until you've been imprisoned" the man added with a wry smile, his spirit unbroken by whatever he'd endured. “Do you… wait… Conrí?”

Conrí’s eyes widened. “I remember you,” he said. “You were at… he’s one of us,” he turned to the group. “A Grey Warden from Jader, if I remember correctly. Forgive me, ser, but your name eludes me.”

“I am Riordan,” the man replied with a bow. “Senior Warden of Jader, but born and bred in Highever, and glad to be home. But you..." his gaze suddenly shifted to Xolana. "I can feel the taint in you, but I don't recognize you from any of the Fereldan Grey's records as I do Erin, Blair and Tira. Where are you from? The Anderfells? The Free Marches?"

"No, I am a Fereldan Warden,” Xolana replied. “But it is something of a long story, one probably best told in safer circumstances.” 

"No doubt," the senior Warden nodded, but Conrí had to wonder; after so long running for their lives, of thinking they were the last of their Order to have survived the destruction, the knowledge that there had been another was both welcome and yet quite frustrating.

"I can think of many questions I wish to ask you, and I agree some of them can wait until we are away from here, but there are some too pressing to wait. For a start, how are you alive? Why weren't you slain at Ostagar?"

"I was not there. I was sent from Orlais when we received no word from King Cailan. The king had invited all the Wardens of Orlais and their support troops to join him, then... nothing."

"You brought an army with you?" Conrí pressed, enthused at the prospect of more Wardens to aid against the darkspawn.

"We had two hundred Wardens and two dozen divisions of cavalry. The first we heard of Loghain's edict was when everyone was turned back at the border. That was when the rumor reached us that Loghain wanted our Order’s knowledge," Riordan glanced at his fellow Wardens, tight-lipped, as if he couldn't imagine the sorts of things they'd had to do to stay alive. "We finally decided it was safest to send someone alone, to learn how best to fight the Blight and this regime simultaneously. As a native Fereldan, I volunteered to make the crossing."

"Is there a way to get word to them? We're running out of time; the longer we take to overthrow Loghain by politics, the longer the Archdemon has to marshal its strength. We've seen it, Riordan. The Archdemon... it is Urthemiel. We saw him in the Deep Roads while we were gaining the support of Orzammar; by now, he and his armies have likely reached the surface. It won't be long now before the darkspawn fall upon us with everything they have.”

Riordan's eyes widened slightly, but otherwise, he stayed relatively calm for someone who was aware of the danger posed by such an entity. “Then matters are worse than we previously thought; we'd hoped we still had time, that the beast was still building its strength in the Deep Roads. I could get word to the others, but the Grey Wardens won't risk their strength fighting Ferelden's civil war. If they spend themselves against Loghain, then there is truly no hope. They recall accounts of the first Blight, how many cities fell. If Ferelden is too foolish to save itself, at least we'll be ready when the Archdemon leads its forces further. Besides..."

An eyebrow rose wryly. "I hear you've not done too badly at raising an army yourself. Even across the borders, we've heard rumors of Dalish clans gathering and the Circle of Magi mustering its strength, and now you say Orzammar is calling forth its banners... perhaps if the edict can be lifted..." Riordan added thoughtfully, rubbing his stubble-covered chin. "I will send a message as soon as we are gone from this place."

"Are these documents yours, ser?" Xolana asked suddenly. She was holding the papers marked with the Grey Warden seal, and the senior Warden's eyes widened again, though from relief this time.

"Yes! These are my records... the names of the dead I could recognize at Ostagar, what I could find of Duncan's own recruitment records." Riordan muttered half to himself as he leafed through the sheaves of parchment. "Ah, and copies of the Joining ritual I rescued from our Denerim vault. Those should never be seen by any outside eyes, but I trust their encryption." 

"The Joining? Could you create more Grey Wardens?" Conrí pressed, intrigued and hopeful at the possibility.

"I see you've already made a start on that front,” Riordan replied with a wry smile and a nod towards Xolana. "You'll have to tell me how you managed that at some point. Would that I could do the same, for Ferelden sorely needs them. But as you must have discovered, for the Joining to work, the recruit needs not only fresh darkspawn blood, but a drop of blood preserved from an Archdemon. Ferelden's supply of Archdemon blood should have been in the vault, but it was gone. I can only imagine someone took it out and Loghain either confiscated or destroyed it. In any case, as you know, the Joining's chances of success are slim anyway, and Loghain has done far worse to our Order than simply cut us off from recruiting.”

"How were you taken prisoner? I find it hard to believe, considering what we've had to do to evade capture, that one of our own could be taken so easily," Leliana enquired, addressing a question that also confounded Conrí. 

"I was taken captive with an offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice,” Riordan answered, a dark look crossing his face. "I was foolish enough to think Loghain didn't know who I was... but that can be discussed later. For now, it seems to me the most urgent order of business is to leave this place; I think it would do none of us good to be caught at the site of a murder.”

"Not yet,” Conrí said "We have business to attend to with Howe... business to be conducted at sword point.”

"I saw him go into the dungeons. He may still be there,” Riordan replied. "I wish you luck; I would be of little use to you in my current state, and I long to see the light of day once more. I will seek you out, once I've secured the help of a good physician.”

"Perhaps you would consider heading to the estate of Teyrn Cousland, my brother?" Conrí put forward. "That is our base of operations in Denerim; you will find allies, food, shelter and the services of one of the finest healers I've encountered. 

"Very well, I shall head there. And..." the senior Warden added as an afterthought before departing. "Good luck, Brother, Sisters."

* * *

Conri spat on the corpse of Howe’s guard. Howe was definitely aware they were coming, having set up a password to prevent outsiders from getting into the dungeons. But honestly, this wasn’t his greatest concern.

As soon as the group entered the dungeon proper, Xolana’s demeanor had noticeably changed. Her back had gone rigid and her fists clenched. Her breathing grew ragged and she tensed even further when Leliana placed a hand on her back. “Are you alright, love?” she asked.

Xolana shook her head. “No, but I’ll survive,” she said shakily.

The caramel skin mage continued to worry her lovers when they entered a side room, and were met with the foul scent of death, decay and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Xolana’s eyes narrowed when she saw that a group of soldiers were gathered around a rack, realizing this was a torture room. The soldiers grabbed various instruments of pain; knives, whips, brands, even a scourge. Xolana snarled gesturing with her hands and a river of flames erupted from her hands, engulfing the torturers. The screams of the soldiers bought no pity from Xolana. Only when the agonized calls stopped did the flames cease. Xolana panted as she stared at the charred corpses, but her mind had cast back to her time imprisoned in the Circle dungeon. She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm, almost grabbing her daggers before realizing it was Conrí. He’d pulled his helmet off and looked very concerned. Xolana grit her teeth and pulled him into a hug ignoring the cold metal of his chest plate.

“This is the second time I’ve brought you somewhere I knew I shouldn’t,” Conrí muttered.

Xolana pulled back a bit and looked up at him. “Don’t start that,” she said softly. “I’ll survive. And anyway, you had no idea we’d be in a dungeon. So don’t start that blaming yourself nonsense you do,” she pulled him down slightly and kissed him briefly, desperately, in equal measure for her own but also his peace of mind.

They were interrupted by a human cry. 

“Don't leave me here..." a hoarse, weak voice cried out desperately from the rack. "Get me out of here! That's an order!"

A man in his mid twenties was tied to the rack, the focus of the torturers' attention before they'd been interrupted. No part of his body looked to have been spared the attention of the torturers, his chest marked with burns and knife cuts, most relatively recent. Deep welts circled his wrists and ankles where the ropes had gouged into his skin as Conrí cut the youth free of the rack, and there were more long marks visible on his back as he slowly sat up, characteristic marks of the whip. He was covered in bruises in varying stages of healing.

"Was this supposed to be a lesson?" the young man winced as he tried to stand and the pain of the injuries to his legs overwhelmed him, forcing him to remaining sitting on the rack. Conrí grimaced at the sight of them; judging by what was done to him, the lad would be lucky if he ever walked properly again, even with magical healing. “I... did my father... did he think it was funny to leave me for so long before sending you?"

"Unless you're a bastard of Eamon's we weren't told about, we weren't sent for you," Xolana replied coolly as she tended to his maimed legs, glad for the distraction from her own terror.

"You move in august company, stranger," the young man replied with an inclined head. "I'm... Oswyn, son of Bann Sighard of the Dragon's Peak Bannorn." Conrí snapped his fingers in recognition, having seen the youth at one of the many tourneys his father had held over the years, one of the noble lads he'd broken lances with during the joust or clashed blades with in the melee, not to mention the lad had his father's look to him; the same blonde hair and shape of the face.

"If you aren't one of my father's soldiers, pray tell who am I thanking for my rescue?" Conrí moved so he was more in the light of the torches and Oswyn's eyes widened in recognition.

"Conrí? Conrí Cousland, is that you? Maker's breath, my father, he thought all your family dead. Maker knows Howe's been bragging about it for months. My family and I were deeply saddened. I assume that's why you're here, to make that old bastard pay for his crimes?"

"We’re Grey Wardens as well now, Oswyn,” Erin told him, seeing his eyes widen in recognition again. “That's our business here-"

"Then I have no question why you have come, for the Grey Wardens and their people have suffered the most in this evil place," Oswyn interjected, nodding in comprehension. "You have my heartfelt gratitude and, I assume, the gratitude of the entire Dragon's Peak Bannorn. If my father has sent no one after me, I can only assume that he does not yet know the true colors of the snakes he has allied with... but if you talk to him, I'm certain he would offer you any reward you might ask."

"Why was Howe torturing you?" Leliana asked, pointing to the ruin of the youth's legs. "If he and his master are so eager to get your father on their side, this seems likely to do exactly the opposite."

"One of the soldiers returning from Ostagar was my wet nurse's son; we've been friends since we were children. He told me that his regiment was ordered to turn their backs on Cailan at Ostagar, before the darkspawn overwhelmed him. The next day, he disappeared and when I went to search for him, I accepted a drink from a stranger and ended up here. 

_And by now, this friend is likely dead, along with any threat his knowledge posed to Loghain,_ Conrí thought bitterly. Out loud, he angrily snarled, "Things get worse the closer the Landsmeet draws."

"Then there is a Landsmeet after all!" Oswyn blurted out, looking incredulous. "Howe said the Arl of Redcliffe was dead, the Landsmeet called off-"

"No, the Landsmeet is going ahead, despite the best efforts of Howe and his master to derail it," Conrí answered and Oswyn gave a sigh of relief, no doubt glad to know that Howe and those behind him weren't going to get away with their crimes, not least of all maiming him and murdering his friend.

"I swear, if any forum to speak out against Loghain exists, my father will be there. I must try to get to him. I... I cannot see the last of this place too soon." Oswyn declared, trying to stand up, only to collapse in pain again as his ruined legs failed to take his weight.

"You're in no state to go anywhere," Conrí insisted. "Wait here; we'll find some way to get you out of here once we've finished with Howe.” Conrí felt great pity for what the youth had endured, deep regret that they hadn't gotten there sooner to save him from the worst of it and a deeper hatred for the one responsible. “Sten, I need you to stay here and ensure Howe’s men do not return and finish Oswyn off.”

Sten sighed but nodded. “Very well, Kadan. Hunt well.”

* * *

 The adjoining rooms held a few guards, all which were easily dispatched, the only real challenge being the jailor, a hefty man whose maul would have smashed limbs had they connected. Slow as he was, however, most missed, and when Conrí entered the fray, the fight came to an abrupt end when his Claymore cut off the maul's stone head, leaving the jailor armed with a worthless long stick, before carving through the man's neck to claim his head with ease. Looting the keys from the guard's corpse, they entered a corridor of cells, though only a few actually held prisoners. The first held a hunched man, weeping and babbling incoherently about a battle in which he'd participated, one that sounded suspiciously like Ostagar based on the poor fellow's rambling. 

"They said to retreat... the horn sounded... we turned... the screams..." the man shook, wrapping his arms around himself. "We rode and they screamed... Can you smell the blood? They said it was only darkspawn, but we ate them too. They died and we left them. In the swamp. The witch. The witch!"

"Hmm, do you suppose he actually saw Flemeth?" Erin muttered thoughtfully as the wretch continued to blither and moan incoherently. "Or is he just blaming Flemeth in his madness?"

"I think that's all we're going to get out of him," Leliana murmured sadly. Turning to the man, she spoke louder. "Ser, if you can find somewhere safe for the moment to hide yourself until we're finished and then we will help you get out of here, help you find refuge at the Chantry, perhaps. I believe your family are looking for you."

"Safe, safe... is there a safe? Perhaps next door..." Without another word, the man stumbled away down the passage, continuing to mumble to himself.

Conrí shook his head and continued to the end of the hall. Eventually they found a wrought iron door, having little doubt Howe lay behind it with his pet mage.

“You ready?” Erin muttered.

Conrí nodded. “For Highever,” he said.

“For Highever,” Erin agreed. 

The twins lifted a booted foot each and kicked open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Cliffhanger. And I know it’s been awhile, but I have no excuse. I honestly wasn’t feeling writing for a while. This was done over the course of a few months, though it was mostly me changing the first two scenes because I didn’t like how they turned out and getting increasingly frustrated. Still not entirely satisfied with how they came out, but I figured it was long over due already, even if I was using older files written ages ago for the later parts. So, here it is. Thank you to all who have followed and put up with my long ass gaps. I do not intend to abandon this anytime soon.  
> ~Sin


	40. Justice Served

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Kitzie here to just say sorry for the long wait and thank you for your patience! Sin and I really burnt through a few thinking caps on this one.  
> Anyway, I won't keep you any longer. Sin's author's note is, as usual, at the end of the chapter.  
> Enjoy!

“Well, well,” Rendon Howe sneered as Conrí strode through the door with Erin right behind him. “Bryce Cousland’s little boy, all grown up and still trying to fit into daddy’s armor. And his little spitfire, still playing the man. I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic family is gone and forgotten.”

Conrí shouldered his sword and raised a gauntlet, pointing a clawed finger at the man who’d destroyed his family’s home. “You won’t forget,” Conrí growled. “Their memory drove us to you.”

“Your parents died on their knees, and your brother’s brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife,” Howe spat. What he didn’t expect was a feral grin to break over Conrí’s face.

“How little you know, Rendon. Your betrayal runs deep, but my nephew and sister-in-law live,” Conrí chuckled darkly. “It seems your soldiers lied to you.”

Rendon bared his teeth in fury. “And what’s left? Fool husks of a son and daughter likely to end their days under a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are gone. You are the last of nothing. This is pointless! You’ve _lost_!”

“You lie, Howe,” Erin whispered. “To yourself most of all. You look across the room at a pair of Grey Wardens. But more than that, you look across the room at two members of a family you should know better than to cross. There is a reason we’re known as the Wolves of the North. We have a nasty habit of coming back to rip out your throat.”

“There it is,” Howe whispered ruefully, pointing accusingly at the twins. “Right there! That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back. It seems you’ve made something of yourselves after all. Your father would be proud.” He broke into a cruel smirk of his own, a pregnant pause accentuating his next words. “I, however, want you dead; now more than ever. 

Conrí snarled and cast aside his helm. While it offered a great deal of protection, it also hindered his vision. He gripped his claymore and raised it in a defensive hanging guard. Erin rolled her shoulders before settling into her own guard, her main weapon adapting a wrath guard over her right shoulder while the off hand dropped into a resting fool’s guard. Zevran of all people had taught her this stance, telling her duelists in Antiva who favored a pair of blades found it to be a comfortable and yet highly defensive guard.

Around the twins, Tira, Leliana, Oghren, Xolana, and Blair readied their weapons and magic. Tira’s sharp eyes landed on a pair of robed figures behind the four warriors accompanying Howe.

“Ma vhenan,” the Ranger turned to her lover. “Would you mind very much in dealing with our magical foes over there?”

Erin, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Howe until that moment, looked over to the pair of mages and smirked cruelly. “Gladly.” Her grey-blue eyes began to glow with a blinding white light as she began to mutter a prayer in Antivan. When Alistair had questioned her choice of language, she told him that she found Antivan to be a smoother language and easier to get prayers out quickly in combat.

The mages blanched as a wave of anti-magic energy swept over them, Howe and the Warriors with them. While the non-mages were merely knocked down abruptly, the mages who fell alongside them began to vomit violently. Hurt and drained of a large portion of his mana, one of the mages looked to Howe and spat out, “You didn’t tell us the bitch was a bloody Templar!”

Before Howe could answer, he had to dodge aside, away from a downwards-cleaving blow from Conrí. Whilst Oghren, Blair and Xolana smoothly moved into combat with the Warriors, Leliana and Tira gave covering fire and the Cousland twins engaged Howe.

Despite not fighting shoulder-to-shoulder in most skirmishes these days, the twins hadn’t lost a step in paired combat. Conrí’s sweeping blows kept Howe from drawing in too quickly on Erin, whilst Erin’s swift strikes and quick guards protected Conrí as his wide swings often left his torso unprotected. Howe snarled to himself; he had to separate them if he wanted a chance. As much as it galled him, he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and these whelps were in the prime of their youth.

It didn’t help that both were almost absurdly strong, having felt their strength when he parried a blow. Howe had always considered greatswords to be clumsy weapons, even the slimmer claymore Conrí used, but the blade seemed to dance in his hands. And Erin… it infuriated him, but she was almost as fast with her slim arming swords as he was in his prime with a dagger. She would often hook her up swept cross guard under the head of his axe head when parrying, using the lower point of balance to upset Howe’s handling as she returned the favor with a low strike.

Howe grimaced and fell back slightly before deftly throwing his dagger, causing both twins to dodge aside. Rendon took this opportunity to grab into a bag of crushed glass at his waist and fling it at the Couslands. Erin jumped back, wiping at her face with her eyes closed to protect them. Conrí meanwhile had merely taken a defensive step back, his sword up as he scrubbed his face.

Howe quickly moved in and plunged his slim belt knife between the small gap in Conrí’s cuirass and tasset. The Warden fell back further, grimacing as he tugged at the hilt of the dagger.

Howe turned back to Erin, finding that she had gotten the minute shards of glass away from her eyes and had superficial cuts all over her face. Her mouth was set in a snarl as she lunged forward, her blades dancing in her hands.

Howe bared his teeth. He recognized this style. The Danza Macabra, “the Macabre Dance”, or as it was more commonly known, the Dance of Death. Last Howe knew, Erin had been struggling to learn this style not a year prior. That damnable Crow must have continued her teaching. While the style normally favored a shortsword and dagger, Erin seemed to have adapted it to fit with her longer blades. With her speed and the unpredictable nature of the style, Erin had Howe backpedaling.

Just as Howe spied an opening and thrust his spare dagger forward, a glint over Erin’s shoulder made him jerk aside. Conrí had yanked the blade from his side, and judging from the minimal blood on the blade that embedded itself into the wood post behind Howe, the chain hauberk and padded gambeson under the plate had negated most of the blade’s damage.

“Next time,” Conrí growled, lowering his arm from the throw and taking up his sword again. “Stab more flesh, and less cloth.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Erin hissed, bringing her sword up in a flash. Howe screamed in agony as his axe dropped to the floor with his hand still clutching it. Erin’s blade had sliced through his forearm and severed it with alarming ease, the Silverite biting through reinforced leather like parchment. As Howe clutched vainly at his severed limb, Erin thrust her sword forward and pinned Howe to the wooden post. “That,” she sneered, adding a cruel twist. “Was for my mother.”

Howe glared at her, blood beginning to pour from his mouth. “Maker spit on you both. I deserved... More.”

Conrí tightened his grip on his claymore and raised it. “This is for my father,” he growled, swinging his sword and decapitating Howe.

The rest of the group, having dealt with the their foes a while before Howe fell and merely standing back to observe, stared in silence. No one dared to move a muscle yet and it seemed like no one was even breathing out of fear of attracting attention to themselves.

After a long moment, Erin yanked her sword free and Leliana couldn’t help herself and let out a stifled, shocked gasp. Conrí and Erin didn’t move an inch, both too busy staring hatefully at their family’s killer. After a silence that stretched far too long and far too thin, Leliana and Xolana finally exchanged a glance and rushed to Conrí whilst Tira made for Erin.

“Finally,” Conrí rumbled, at last breaking the silence.

“He's finally dead,” Erin whispered as Tira embraced her silently.

The Blight notwithstanding, the twins had fought and bled in hopes of this event. Whether by their own blades, the hangman’s noose or the headsman’s axe, neither truly cared. But as the moment arrived and they stopped to reflect, they found their victory and vengeance tasted like ash. Despite justice finally being dealt, both were flung back to that night, when their home burned around them. That night, when they were forced to leave their mortally wounded father and resolute mother to their deaths. That night, when they fled, knowing men and women they had known their entire lives were dying in droves for one cruel, selfish man’s ambition.

Oghren approached Howe’s corpse and rooted in his pocket, drawing out a key. “Hey,” he grunted, addressing Leliana, Xolana and Tira. Voice was pitched low and his eyes had an uncharacteristically sober and understanding glint. “When they come ‘round, let ‘em know me and Twiggy are gonna check the back cells. Stone knows what this Duster has back there,” he added, sending Howe’s severed head a beady glare before stomping off and ignoring Blair’s protest that she wasn’t “Twiggy”. Killing, in Oghren’s mind, was all well and good given the right circumstances. But Howe… what he did rang all to familiar with what Branka did for the Anvil. Kidnap and torture? There was no honor in that. _Yeah, the nughumper deserved more, alright,_ he thought. _More time feeling the very pain he inflicted on others._  

* * *

Erin thumbed the ring Blair had given her. When she and Conrí finally emerged from their thoughts, Blair had informed them that she and Oghren had discovered a Templar going through withdrawal of some kind and asked that his ring be delivered to his sister, Alfstanna.

Erin knew Irminric. Not well, as he was about Fergus’s age, but they were acquainted. Irminric had passed his title onto his sister, believing she would be the better Bann, and took up life as a Templar.

It seemed Irminric had captured Jowan and had been in the process of returning to the Circle when he was accosted by Howe and Loghain’s men. Neither Alfstanna nor the Revered Mother would be pleased to hear this.

She was drawn from her thoughts as Conrí knocked loudly on Anora’s door. After a moment, the Queen emerged, wearing a set of steel guardsman armor. Conrí, despite his mental fatigue couldn’t help but quip, “Aren’t you a little short for a guard?” with a cocked brow.

“Funny,” Anora scowled. “We had best get moving. No doubt more trouble is already on its way.”

Conrí grunted and turned to head back into the entrance hall. He grit his teeth when he crossed the threshold and growled out, “Or is already here.”

Ser Cauthrien stood in front of the door with a large contingent of guards. “Warden Cousland, by order of the Regent, you are under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe,” she announced.

Conrí growled and stared daggers at Anora and Erlina. “We will have words about this later.”

Erin crossed her arms, sending Cauthrien a scathing glare. “I find it odd the Regent is so worried _now_ about men dying,” she sneered. “When Howe attacked Highever, he was rewarded for it, even though the laws demand a trial for his accusations.”

“And now he accuses us of murder,” Conrí continued. “When in truth, Howe is not why we came here.” A dark grin stole over his face. “Though I will admit his death was an unexpected fortune,” the grin quickly vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Stand aside, Cauthrien. Howe more than earned his death with what he did here. You recognize Oswyn, son of Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak? What crime did he commit that landed him here? Knowing of Loghain's abandonment of the army at Ostagar.” Cauthrien’s eyes widened briefly before returning to a glare.

Xolana scoffed in all her currently half-naked glory, seeing the brief change in expression. Dogs like that wouldn’t turn from their master. “Don’t even bother, Conrí. It's clear she won't listen to reason. We can take them.”

“I agree with the saarebas,” Sten announced with a slightly irritated huff. “Let us not waste any more time, Kadan, and fight our way through.”

Conrí slid his helm over his head, his eyes glowing an ominous red through the slits. “Aye. I’m rather finished dealing with traitors and fools this day.” His voice fell to a hiss to Anora, Oswyn, and Erlina. “We'll create an opening. Take it,” he ordered before his tone deepened to a draconic rumble. “If these fools aim to stop us, make them work for it.”

Anora, Erlina and Oswyn nodded tersely, Anora and Erlina looking exceptionally sour at the blunt address while the rest of group stepped up defensively before them beside Conrí.

Leliana held her bow at the ready. “They won't even know what hit them,” she said with a smirk. Xolana stood beside the Bard, her daggers igniting and grinning, just waiting for Conrí’s sign.

“Just one thing,” Conrí barked. “Cauthrien is mine.” Allowing himself to fall back into a primal rage, Conrí let loose a roar and charged, ignoring bolts and arrows as they glanced off his armor.

Everyone nodded and added their own battle cries to the mix, and things immediately got under way. Sten and Oghren helped Conrí carve a path to Cauthrien, but immediately stepped back to fight those around them once she and Conrí clashed. No one was foolish enough to intervene. All around, Cauthrien's men dropped like flies, felled as arrows, blades and the occasional well-placed spell flashed through the room with great skill. It did not take long before the battle looked to be decidedly in the favor of the Wardens and their companions.

Xolana laughed gleefully as she tossed a fireball at one of Cauthrien’s men before parrying another's sword slash with her daggers. “Come on, this is too easy!” she crowed.

“Don't get overconfident, love!” Leliana chided lightly as she put an expert arrow straight through the eye of a guard that was coming up behind Xolana.

Conrí locked blades with Cauthrien, his lighter claymore pushing her Summer Sword back a bit to her alarm. “You and your men are outmatched, Cauthrien,” Conrí hissed. “As I warned you at Eamon's, I'm not the rawboned boy I was when we last fought. And while you've been here, safe in the capital, playing Loghain's lapdog as he burns this country to the ground, I have been fighting damn near everyday!”

Cauthrien smirked despite the effort of holding her own against Conrí. “Rawboned you may no longer be,” she panted. “But naive you have remained.” She gave a sharp whistle and the main doors along with those leading to the mess hall opened, letting more men swarm in and surround the invading group once again. Everyone had to back away from the doors and tighten their formation once more to size up the new force they were up again. Xolana sidestepped away from the first opening door, someone slashing at her with their sword but missing, only managing to catch one of the decorative swathes of fabric from the whore's costume which now dangled uselessly around her.

Sten gave a deep breath of distaste. “Underhanded tactics. But we can still fight.”

Leliana drew another arrow, glancing at her quiver as she did. “For as long as I have arrows, this is nothing.”

“What, like we're scared of this nuglickin’, stoneless lot!?” Oghren scoffed.

“Be smart, boy!” Cauthrien snapped, still holding hard against Conrí, Silverite groaning against Silverite.

Conrí snorted. “You don't know my people very well,” he snarled before barking at the others. “Ghost them!” the Reaver gave a roar as his eyes began glowing even brighter and the red lightning of Aura of Pain surrounded him and Cauthrien. Despite the unsettling power now pouring off their leader, everyone returned to the fray with a battle hardened glee, wasting no time to start pushing their way back to an advantage, though some had started showing signs of fatigue. It had been a long and adrenaline-fueled mission after all, and even Wardens and their companions had their limits.

“What _are_ you?!” Cauthrien demanded, her eyes widening as she felt as if her very soul was being assaulted. Those burning red eyes couldn’t be of any normal man. Had this Warden made a deal with a demon?

“I am what makes even hardened Templars wake at night in a cold sweat,” Conrí hissed, his voice dipping in pitch to a low, gravelly rumble. “I am what made the Nevarran dragon hunters so deadly. The more I hurt, the more I bleed, the meaner I get,” the crimson orbs seemed to glow brighter, like jewels from the depths of the Void itself. “You decided to poke the dragon Cauthrien.” Loghain’s right hand bared her teeth in pain.

“What the bloody hell is that?!” one of Cauthrien’s soldiers squealed in fright.

“Kadan has imbibed the blood of the glorious ones,” Sten intoned before removing the head of the quailing man.

“In common?” Conrí growled, a dark grin evident in his voice. “I'm a fecking Reaver.”

Just as Cauthrien began stumbling backwards in terror, seriously considering retreat, the unthinkable happened. Xolana closed her eyes, drawing a tired breath for just a moment too long. When she opened them again, it was all she could do to jump backwards, out of the way of an incoming sword slash. Leliana noticed this new threat just in time and took out the opportunistic soldier with a well-placed arrow and a scream, her voice cracking with fear, but even as one fell, another stepped on the previously torn fabric still hanging from Xolana’s hips.

Tired, surprised and off-balance, she stumbled and fell, and before any could come to cover her until she recovered, one greasy-faced soldier managed to pounce on her, pinning her to the ground with his sheer weight. His sword flat was pressed against her throat, barely scraping the skin but not quite drawing blood, which she could have otherwise use to free herself.

“ **Xol! No!** ” Leliana all but shrieked, drawing an arrow back but holding her fire because of the proximity of the man to her lover.

Xolana had been about to rise when the weight of an armored man suddenly pinned her down, forcing a grunt of surprise from her, but her struggles were cut short when the blade suddenly bared down on her throat. The Arcane Rogue let out a whimper, painfully aware of not only how badly she had just erred and that her life and that of her comrades was now in danger, but also of the lecherous grin on the man’s face at the compromising position they were now in, especially with her state of undress. It was all she could do to not cringe away from the sour smell of his breath as he leaned over her, trapping her.

Around them, the fighting started going still as Leliana’s cry attracted attention. Everyone who was fighting was now in a standoff, no one willing to quite step out of the fight, nor continue it whilst it was s unclear what the leaders of this battle would do next in this interesting situation they now found themselves in.

“Conrí,” Xolana mumbled, meekly, so as not to risk the man deciding he'd rather cut off her head. She was about to apologize, but was cut off by a growl from the Qunari.

“Unhand the bas saarebas, vashedan!” Sten snapped, brandishing Asala.

“Call your man off and you get me,” Conrí snarled, taking stock of the situation quickly. “He lays another hand on her and you all die.”

Cauthrien, despite the advantage, was unsure if the fight was still winnable. Cousland was ruthless and brutal, and his friends fought like demons. _Perhaps it would be safer…_ “You will come without a fight?” she asked finally. With her adrenaline ebbing, she felt that her wrist was at least badly sprained, and she had multiple cracked ribs.

“Aye,” Conrí sneered, now extremely grateful he’d kept Alistair at Fergus’s. “I, and I alone.”

Cauthrien took stock, seeing many of her reinforcements dead or dying. Cousland’s words weren’t empty. “Stand down,” she said after a moment.

“Kadan...” Sten started, a displeased frown on his face, but cut himself off when he noticed everyone else standing down as well without hesitation, though they were all growling and glaring right along with him as they slowly put their weapons away. He slowly tucked away his sword, his eyes promising death to those who forced this choice on his basalit-an.

The soldier above Xolana in particular was slow and disappointed in backing off, but eventually he did, and Xolana scrambled backwards straight into Leliana, the Bard now holding her close, glaring daggers at anyone who even so much as looked at them funny.

Xolana looked to Conrí, pale-faced, and stuttering despite Leli hushing her. “Conrí, I- I'm sorry, I...”

Conrí looked over his shoulder, the crimson glow leaving his eyes as he removed his helm. “Don't worry about it. We'll speak later,” he turned back. “I'm a man of my word,” he said, dropping his claymore and helm. “But, before you even think of putting irons on me, they go free.”

Cauthrien mentally debated for a moment. “Go, then. Before I change my mind.”

It took a few more growls, clenched fists and gritted teeth, but eventually the group shuffled out, all silently yet in union thinking how the void they were going to bust Conrí out of Fort Drakon.

* * *

“Eamon? Fergus?” Anora stopped, seeing the eldest Cousland heir still alive. She shook her head. _Of course he is. Father has been overconfident for months._ “We have a problem.” 

“Aye, because of _your_ foolishness,” Erin sneered. “My brother is being hauled off to Fort Drakon.”

“What?!” Fergus roared, his eyes narrowing on Anora. “How did this happen?!”

“Kadan was taken to protect the mage,” Sten rumbled. “But we would not have been there if not for your so-called queen.”

“Cauthrien was far too quick for it to be a coincidence,” Tira laid a hand on her lover’s shoulder while sending Anora and Erlina a pointed glare. “We had barely left the dungeon, and she was already in the main hall.”

Fergus snarled and turned to tear into Anora when he noticed Xolana. She was talking much too quickly, still not quite her usual, rational self again. “It was my fault, I'm so sorry, Maker I'm so sorry, if it wasn't for me…” Leliana was busy trying to calm Xolana again, telling her it was not her fault.

“Either way, we can't leave him there,” Blair piped up, drawing attention away from the rambling mage.

“Damn right!” Oghren belched, shouldering his axe. “So we busting him out or what!?”

“I must agree with our smelly, dwarven friend,” Zevran interjected, flipping a dagger. “I find myself rather invested in our dear Commander's freedom and safety, yes?”

“Alright,” Fergus growled. “Leave after nightfall. Keep the casualties to a minimum. Deaths only if no other recourse is available. Those guards are just doing their job.”

Xolana nodded, wide eyed. “Alright, we need to come up with a plan.”

“Xol-,” Leliana looked worried, unsure how to approach telling her lover that maybe she should stay behind.

“Xolana,” Wynne started in a motherly tone. “You look like you need rest. You should let the others handle this.”

The weariness vanished from Xolana’s eyes, now all but growling. “Rest? _Rest_?! Have you lost your mind!? It's my fault they captured him in the first place! I can't just sit back and twiddle my fucking thumbs whilst-”

Sten cut her off. “Enough. You aid no one so long as your emotions are not under control.”

Zevran, knowing Xolana’s temper, stepped in before she could explode at Sten's tone. “Darling Xolana, perhaps what everyone is trying to say is that you look like you have not slept properly in days. Not to doubt your fabulous fighting skills - and really, you _must_ share with me who was your tutor, a very skilled and handsome man I am sure,” he shot her a cheeky wink. “But you can simply not make full use of them when you can barely stand on your own two legs,” he gestured to her, indicating how heavily she was actually leaning on Leliana. “Eat something, sleep, and by the time you're done, our illustrious Commander will be back, none the worse for the wear. You just wait and see.”

Blair nudged him gently. “Was that a full-length, comforting and inspiring speech right there?”

“I am a man of many talents,” Zevran grinned.

Xolana was calmed and also amused enough by his words to see reason. With fading reluctance, she nodded. “Alright, you win. Just bring him and yourselves back safely.”

“I am pleased you can see reason, Warden,” Sten rumbled. Xolana squinted at the giant. That may have been the first time he addressed her as Warden and not ‘mage’ or ‘saarebas.’

“I'll play infiltrator,” Blair announced. “Wouldn't be the first time I've broken someone out of Fort Drakon.”

“Then our other red-haired berserker and I can provide distraction,” Zevran added. “My good looks and his… presence should keep the attention squarely on us.”

Fergus nodded. “Sounds like the best possible plan. See to it, but be careful. My brother will never forgive himself if you die rescuing him.” As the group filed out, Fergus rounded on Anora, his eyes ablaze. “Now, your Majesty, you can explain your latest little scheme.”

* * *

 The infiltration had gone surprisingly well. Zevran had managed to convince the captain that he and Oghren were performers from the Antivan City Circus, and talked his way past a Lieutenant. Finally, they found themselves outside the door leading to the cells and the rest of the quarters.

“Hm. I doubt we will be able to convince any beyond here we belong,” Zevran muttered. The door handle jiggled and the pair tensed. After a moment, the door opened, revealing Blair and a pair of unconscious guards.

“Took you two long enough,” she said, hand on her hip. Zevran couldn’t help but admire how her new Dragonhide armor hugged her curves, the dark grey contrasting starkly with her platinum blonde hair. “Thought I'd be doing the rest on my own.”

Oghren belched as if unimpressed. “Let's get to the bloody Commander already then, shall we?”

Zevran eventually found the door leading to the dungeon. He grimaced when he spied the rack, having vicious flashbacks to his ‘training’ as a Crow. “Braska. Let us hope the Commander is in shape enough to walk, let alone fight,” he hissed.

A single guard was facing into a cell, a sneer on his already unpleasant face. A closer look revealed it to be the same one who had pinned Xolana. Zevran growled, fingering his dagger. While Xolana was no longer his lover, she was still his friend. A cad he may be, but he never took what wasn’t offered freely, and detested men that didn’t respect consent. This bastard was one of them.

Upon hearing footsteps, the guard turned, reaching for his weapon. Before he could even take a step forward, a bloody hand reached through the bars, raking claws of blood across his face and throat. Another hand emerged and spun the guard around, yanking him towards the bars as he choked on his own blood. Then, a demonic rumble echoed from within the cell and the pooling blood turned to a red mist and streaked into the cell. The guard let out a gurgling scream as his skin slowly dried out, turning thin and papery. After a few moments, the guard was reduced to a desiccated corpse and the hands dropped the stiff cadaver. A moment later, the same bloody hands emerged again, taking the key from the guard’s belt and opening the cell door. Conrí emerged, freshly healed scars, lacerations and burns along with numerous bruises lining his torso. He was glaring hard at what was once his jailer, teeth clenched and a violent red aura surrounding him.

Zevran cleared his throat nervously. “Well, it would appear our dear Commander knows how to make both an entrance _and_ an exit.”

“You mean to tell me he could get out of here just fine on his own?” Oghren grumped. “What in nuglickin…”

Conrí snorted, the aura fading. “You gave me the opening I needed,” he growled before hissing as his movements stretched the healing injuries, and he covered a burn scar shaped like a clawed foot. “Bastard was talking too damn much.”

“What was he saying?” Blair mumbled.

Conrí sent her a dark look. “There's a reason I let him choke on his own blood for a few moments.”

“Not to lessen the severity of the situation or belittle the trauma you undoubtedly endured even in the short time you were here,” Zevran interjected, a tad concerned Conrí would lash out given his state. “But I do believe we should find your things and then get out before tending to injuries of any nature, yes?”

“True enough,” Blair nodded. “Commander, are you healed enough to make it out?”

“I'll be fine,” Conrí grunted. “I'm more sore than anything.” He walked over to a chest in the corner and opened it, pulling on his armor and taking his sword from the rack nearby.

Oghren frowned. “Well that was easy. No traps? No fighting through the masses to find yer shite?”

“I will admit, I would not have expected this mission to be so much easier than an assassination attempt on the yet young and inexperienced Wardens,” Zevran quipped.

“That's because they're expecting me to tear out of here, slaughtering all in my path,” Conrí sneered. “Then Cauthrien and Loghain can paint me as an unhinged monster. It’s why they left that bastard here.”

“Convenient rhetoric,” Zevran snorted. “A single corpse will hardly suffice to paint that pretty picture, though.”

“What a shame we weren't going to let that happen,” Blair grunted in assent. “Come on Commander, time runs short to find a way out of here.”

“Aye. There's a servants entrance near the docks. No one bothers guarding it.”

“I know of it,” Blair agreed. “I've used it to escape in the past. It's just off the kitchen. This way.”

Zevran tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Not that I don't trust your knowledge, carina, but that truly does seem too easy, now.”

“We can't go out the way you came in,” Blair reasoned. “And with Conrí in the condition he's in, and Oghren... being Oghren, we can't slip out the windows. We can subdue any guards we might come across, but the majority of them are in the main hall. With how they’ve been dealing with Conrí, it’s likely their piling men towards the main entrance to stack the body count.”

“Hey, what's that supposed to-,” Oghren growled before being cut off by Zevran, who gave a terse nod after brief contemplation. “The servant's entrance it is, then.”

“Aye,” Conrí grunted. “The sooner we put this place behind us, the better. We have to be quick. It's only a matter of time before someone stumbles on that scum,” he sent a dark scowl at the corpse.

Oghren gave it a half-hearted kick. “Well he ain't following us, so what are we waiting for?”

“Our vertically challenged friend is correct,” Zevran agreed. “Let's move.” He gestured largely for Blair to lead the way.

Blair strode through the hall, ignoring the servants along the way until one discreetly handed her something. Checking it quickly and finding it to be a note, she looked over her shoulder. “The head guard has called everyone to the main hall. We only have a few minutes before they go back to their rounds. It seems they’re starting to doubt Conrí’s temper reaching a boil tonight.”

“A good thing you still have friends here, mia cara,” Zevran grinned.

Oghren began chuckling in that disconcerting way of his. “Yeah, ‘friends,’ heh-heh.”

“As Zevran knows, Oghren, I'm not so easy to catch,” Blair announced off-handedly. “None of my contacts have interested me.”

Oghren grumbled something that sounded remarkably like "boring.”

Blair opened one final door and looked out. “We're clear. Let's get back to the Estate.”

Conrí growled and rolled his shoulder. “As useful as my abilities are, I'd like to get these injuries seen to by a real healer.”

Zevran nodded understandingly. “Wynne is waiting.”

“As are yer girls, hehe,” Oghren chuckled.

“I can hardly believe that I'm the one to say it, but now is hardly the time, my bearded friend,” Zevran rolled his eyes.

Conrí’s chuckle was raspy but there. “I'm hurt, Zev. Not dead.”

Blair checked the perimeter one more time before nodding at them all to keep moving and leading the way. “Well, let's make sure it stays that way until we can get you back to your ladies. Xolana is beating herself up over what happened.”

“And the lovely Leliana is understandably concerned for the both of you,” Zevran was quick to add.

“Of course she is,” Conrí sighed. “She consistently puts blame on herself. Let's go.”

“Truth is, none of us expect to be bested by our own skirts, of all things, Blair reasoned. “I can understand why she would feel liable.”

“Maybe,” Conrí allowed. “But Cauthrien and Anora are really the ones at fault here. I'd love to understand their game. Cauthrien arrived far too quickly.”

“You'll have to tell our dear arcane rogue on your own,” Zevran informed Conrí. “Not much further to safety.”

* * *

 Conrí yanked his helmet off and limped into the main hall. The last stretch had been mostly clear with the few guards patrolling either left out of the loop on who had been captured or just not recognizing Conrí’s Juggernaut armor. Everyone else had cleaned up and changed. Only Xolana was still nervously pacing in the main hall in exactly the same state she first arrived in, barring some scrapes and bruises that Wynne insisted on healing. When she saw Conrí enter, she stopped in her tracks, eyes widening, and ran at him, relief clearly written in her face. She stopped herself short of barreling him over, aware of his limp, and tentatively reached for his cheek, though she stopped short of actually touching him. “You're back, thank the Maker! Are... are you ok?” she asked breathlessly.

Everyone who was in the main hall came to surround Conrí and his grand escape crew, Wynne already fussing over his injuries. Tristan, who had been on Xol-watch to relieve an exhausted Leliana, had quickly stepped out to let the Bard know Conrí was back, safe and sound.

Conrí grumbled slightly at Wynne's fussing but didn't rebuff her. “I've been better, love but also much worse,” he said, taking Xolana’s hand. “I hear you have been blaming yourself for the debacle in Howe's estate.”

Xolana looked away abashed, though not pulling her hand away. Her voice, however, still held a self-loathing bitterness. “Like he could have ever caught you if it hadn't been for me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Conrí grunted. “Maybe he would have gotten a hold of Erin, Tira or Leliana. Regardless, he isn't an issue anymore. Our real problem is how Cauthrien got to the Estate so fast.” He brushed a strand of hair from Xolana’s eyes. “So I don't want to hear you blaming yourself after what you went through in the dungeons. Anyone would be exhausted.”

Xolana was left trying to find words to answer when Leliana came into the main hall, so instead she just squeezed Conrí’s hand tightly.

“Oh thank the Maker you're back,” Leliana sped over and hugged Conrí tightly, though warily in case of injury.

“He needs healing, girls,” Wynne huffed.

“I've been worse. And I was, not long ago,” he muttered the second part, flexing his fingers as Wynne prodded his shoulder.

Xolana frowned, having heard him, but stayed silent, contenting herself with gripping Leliana’s free hand.

Leliana pulled away enough so that Wynne could pull Conrí out of the throng for healing. “Come on let's get you out of that armor, and let Wynne do her job.”

Most of the crowd dispersed, relieved that Conrí was back, and willing to wait for a proper update on everything once things had been taken care of.

Conrí pulled open the straps of his armor, doffing the plates and removing his padded gambeson, all the while gritting his teeth as his tender shoulder was tweaked. Angry red scars and deep bruises slowly revealed themselves as he shrugged off the cotton shirt under his padded jacket.

“These were worse?” Wynne breathed, eying the obvious signs of torture with worry.

Xolana bit her lip to keep from saying out loud that she still blamed herself. Instead, she just moved off to grab clean towels and a bowl of water for Wynne. Leliana sat down with Conrí, holding his hand. “What did those animals _do_ to you?” she hissed, having flashbacks of her own time in a dungeon.

“Whips, brands. Knocked my shoulder out of its joint,” Conrí listed wearily. “Since no one asked me for information, I'm assuming they wanted me angry enough to do something stupid. Like tear my way through Fort Drakon. They even left that rat bastard with me. Poking me, trying to drive me into a blood frenzy.”

“I hope they pay. We better make them pay,” Xolana muttered angrily as she came back with towels and water, and began cleaning the wounds with more tenderness than her facial expression would make seem possible.

“One of them did,” Conrí assured her. “I made sure of that. The scum who dared lay his grubby paws on you.”

Wynne directed Xolana to where she needed to clean away blood and dirt most urgently, and Xolana set to the task gently, though her expression was still nothing short of murderous. “The cad. Good riddance,” she growled under her breath.

“How did you treat yourself?” Wynne asked. “I need to know what herbs you used so we don't accidently poison you.”

“No herbs,” Conrí grunted. “Vile as it was, the bastards blood was good for something.” He took a rag and began wiping the blood from around his mouth - the only stains that weren’t his own.

Everyone but Xolana had a moment of shock in which they paused before returning to what they were doing. Reaver abilities were useful, but very disconcerting.

“I hope it hurt, when he died,” the resident Blood Mage hissed vindictively.

“You remember how I turned my blood into razors?” Conrí asked. “I did the same thing, just as claws. It also seems that, given enough time, my blood will eat through iron.”

“That... is concerning,” Wynne mumbled as she continued using healing spells. “But at least it doesn't seem to affect my capacity to heal you. And makes it very difficult to contain you.”

“It seems I have to have malicious intent towards a person or object for my blood to behave anomalously,” Conrí explained. “A servant sent to give me food slipped in a puddle of my blood. Other than horrifying the poor lass, it did nothing.”

“That's reassuring,” Leliana sighed, now less concerned about her lover’s blood eating away at her skin.

Xolana however, let out a snort at the mental image.

Conrí continued to give his usual grumbles about health checks, if for no other reason than familiarity and pride.

After awhile, Wynne stood up, wiping her hands off. “Well, provided you rest for a few days and don't exert yourself too much, I believe your body will heal just fine, if with a few new scars.”

“Better alive and scarred than the alternative,” Leliana reasoned.

Xolana traced one of his old scars and kissed the edge of it lightly. “All part of the job, right?” she asked, looking up at Conrí.

“You're starting to get it,” Conrí rumbled. He sent Wynne a very brief, defiant look before leaning down and kissing Xolana. The aging mage gave a motherly huff and roll of the eyes. The stubborn wolf had bluntly rejected her advice on this topic last time she brought up the trio’s relationship, so she said nothing. But, seeing the three now; well, perhaps she was wrong.

Xolana kissed Conrí back and started sniffling, holding herself back from crying. She spoke between kisses. “I'm sorry... I was just so scared, and I felt so guilty.”

“Oh, Xol,” Leliana sighed, hugging the brunette carefully so she didn’t interrupt the exchange of affection.

“Like I said, not your fault,” Conrí said firmly. “I'll live. I'm a little banged up and sleep won't be easy for a while, but they were trying to piss me off, not break me. I'll be alright.”

Xolana took a shuddering breath to steady herself, but then nodded, pulling away from Conrí just enough to pull Leli up to their height so they could all hug together properly. “Sorry I've been insufferable since we got back,” she murmured.

“So nothing changed while I was gone?” Conrí chuckled.

Leliana couldn’t help but join him. Xolana looked briefly affronted before allowing herself to also fall into amusement together with her lovers and laughing as well. Conrí finally broke the hug and stretched his shoulder. “That's going to be annoying,” he complained.

Leliana stood up and pulled Conrí gently to his feet. “Come, love, you should rest.”

Xolana slowly rose as well. “And I'll try and keep an eye out in case we need damage control after your escape.”

Leliana grabbed her lover’s shoulder firmly, giving her a reproachful look. “Oh, no you don't. You haven't had a moment's rest. You're going to take a bath, and then also rest. I'll take care of everything.”

As much as he would normally protest, Conrí found his pride wasn’t as pushing as usual. “Well, honestly, I could stand not dealing with fallout for once. And a bath does sound nice.”

Xolana looked hesitant for a bit but finally relented under Leliana’s intense gaze. “Alright, alright, bath then sleep, I heard you,” she murmured, adding "bossy" under her breath with a grin.

“I heard that,” Leliana said sternly, and began shooing Xolana and Conrí towards a hot bath. “And when I say bath and rest, I _mean_ bath and rest. You both need it.”

“Hey I can restrain myself!” Xolana protested reproachfully, adding hastily, since the other two were giving her looks, “...Sometimes...?”

Conrí rolled his eyes fondly. “I’m sure there will be plenty of time for that tomorrow. We'll deal with Anora at some point, but getting clean and resting is my priority at the moment.”

Xolana nodded. “Then that's what we'll do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, happy holidays everyone. This one took forever because, honestly, I couldn’t get the fight with Howe right. It is one of the most powerful moments in the game if you run a human noble and is grimly satisfying to put that rat to the sword. It’s also one of the hardest fights I’ve had to write because in game, he’s never been a challenge to me but I wanted it to be believable and incorporate Conrí and Erin working together directly. Btw, as a side note, the guards I mentioned during the fight are historical techniques. Thank you, Skallagrim on YouTube. 
> 
> I’d like to address three people who messaged me during the writing of this chapter. Two for… not so friendly reasons. One anonymous guest merely left the message “You fucking liar,” on my RWBY fic. If you’re going to attack me, have the guts to do so in a way that lets me respond. 
> 
> The second has an account, but as I’m not a child, I won’t list it to avoid people going after them. This person didn’t like Conrí or his manner of dealing with Templars. That doesn’t bother me. But the phrase, “I hope he dies,” DOES BOTHER ME. As I told him before he blocked me like a coward, not even allowing me to see his reply, as much as I appreciate the feedback, the love and support I get, I’m writing this story for me and my beta. Our enjoyment is my primary concern and we both like Conrí. I’m not asking everyone to like Conrí but he is one of the main characters. This is my story and I’m going to write it how I wish. 
> 
> The last message was much more supportive. Nasi_lemak on AO3, I do not intend to leave this unfinished, even if it takes me a bit to write. As much as I’m writing this story for me, it does make me happy that others enjoy it as well. We’ve gotten a bunch of new follows since the last post and I hope everyone who’s followed since I started is still enjoying this.
> 
> Sorry about the mini-rant. Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and has a safe and happy holidays. See y'all in the new year. 
> 
> ~Sin


End file.
